Les Immortels
by Emari-chan
Summary: Javert wakes up in a bizarre world where not only do creatures of Gypsy legend exist, but they all seem to want to kill him. Moreover, Jean Valjean is determined to help him (though the Inspector can't fathom why), as does Amali, a Guardian of... something or other. Angels, demons, monsters - it's Les Miserables meets the Apocalypse in a story of life after death. J/JVJ slash.
1. In Which Landing is Not the Result

Greetings! This being my second attempt at fanfiction, I'm not promising that it will be anything spectacular. Before we get going, a few notes on my part:

- First, though this may shock you, I am not Victor Hugo. This is a fanfiction website. Ergo, I own none of the characters, except possibly Amali. In any event, it hardly matters as I am not making money off this publication.

- Second, I do owe an additional acknowledgement to Ms. Judika Illes, as it was in reading her book_ The Encyclopedia of Spirits_ that I developed the idea for this story. Thanks to her for details on Romani-Gypsy mythology.

- Finally, this is a slash fanfic that is utterly unrelated to my previous work, and I doubt very much that it will be connected to anything I may write later. Don't ask me when it turns into slash - I haven't the faintest idea yet.

Thank you for bearing with me. Without further ado, I give you Chapter One...

...In Which Landing is Not the Result of Falling

In the beginning, or rather, the beginning of what he could remember, the world was formless and empty, and darkness lay over all. He knew not where he was, nor where he had come from, nor even in that instant whom he was. Then, a spark jumped from the flintstone of thought and a memory swam to the surface of the deep. The memory spoke of falling, limp and helpless for what seemed like an age. In casual review, one almost got bored of such continuous flux.

At last, the sensation of an endless plummet was replaced by something new, a sensation of numbing cold. This too seemed unending, a state of frigidity so permanent that one almost came to believe one _was_ the cold, that cold was all there was, and that one had never been a broken figure falling through empty space...

* * *

Monsieur l'Inspector Javert woke with a start, though in point of fact, that expression is something of a misnomer. While it is true that Javert's return to a state of consciousness was so swift as to be almost instantaneous, he resisted the powerful urge to throw his eyes open. Years of police work had put the Inspector in many an unfamiliar situation, and his instincts had thus been honed to a state of expert precision. There was danger present, and until he could ascertain the nature thereof, it was unquestionably safer to remain relaxed in all semblance of continued sleep.

He was lying on damp grass, and though Javert was unbound, that was hardly a guarantee of safety or of freedom. He certainly did not have the faintest idea how he had come to be there, though again, in his line of work, waking up in strange places wasn't a particularly unusual occurrence. He was about to risk a peek at his surroundings when he heard a low chuckle to his left.

"It's lucky that we found him first," said a male voice from the same direction. Javert carefully kept his face free of any emotion or tension.

"Lucky?" scoffed a similar voice, this one to his right. "Too right we are. If his little friends had found him first, it could've taken us _days_ to catch up with them."

Had Javert not been feigning sleep, he'd have rolled his eyes. Crooks so often played up the dramatic cliché, not understanding that fresh witticisms were often more effective. By "friends", the man had to mean the police. The Inspector was not known for his ability to form personal relationships. The idea of his even _liking_ someone else was ludicrous, let alone _befriending _them.

"Quiet!" The third voice sounded female, though it was as raspy as the other two. "We mustn't attract attention! Let's just kill him now and get out of here."

The voice's owner stood right behind him. Javert was surrounded. The Inspector tensed his muscles with a painstaking slowness, careful to avoid rousing the slightest suspicion. He would be prepared to fly at the first opportunity. Though he was unarmed, his captors would come to regret leaving him untethered.

The three were not yet through talking.

"You can't kill him now!" hissed the first man. "We have our orders - he's got to be awake first!"

Javert was fervently glad that he'd maintained the façade of sleep.

"If he's not totally corporeal yet and we kill him, bits of consciousness will be hanging around forever and a day. We'll never find them all," the man continued. He'd lost the Inspector - this last statement made no sense in the slightest, unless it were some form of code.

Whatever the statement meant, it was not what the woman wanted to hear. Seething, she said "Fine. Let's wake him up, then."

Javert heard the sound of water being drawn and could guess what was going to happen. Sure enough, a bucket of icy water was poured over his head seconds later. This time, the Inspector made no pretence of continued unconsciousness. His abductors would never have believed it. Instead, he sat bolt upright, wiping water from his eyes in the same motion.

The scene that greeted his eyes was something out of a nightmare - literally. He was next to a river in the middle of a forest, without a trace of Paris in sight, but it was not the scenery causing his consternation. Rather, his discomfort was the result of the figures before him.

As a child, the tales surrounding these monsters had haunted his imagination for days after the telling. The creature holding the water bucket in her ghastly mouth was a pale worm nearly Javert's own size. The bristles covering her bloated body were all quivering in the Inspector's direction.

If Javert seemed to be staring singly at this apparition, it was only because the other two demons hardly bore looking at. Nevertheless, the Inspector was only too aware of their hovering in his peripheral vision. One was a sickly green bird with serrated talons. The other was a man, but with seven heads - three of them belonged on the body of a vicious cat, and the other four on an enormous canine. Both exceeded the worm in stature.

"Good morning," said the worm, dropping the bucket to the ground. "Sleep well?"

Javert's usual steady stream of sarcastic commentary had dried up about the same time he had opened his eyes. He was dreaming, or hallucinating. That realization brought him some degree of calm - in a dream, he couldn't actually be hurt. He could wait patiently until he woke up. It was a technique that had worked well before; the Inspector had a lot of nightmares. Generally, however, they centered around his work and not distant childhood memories.

There was a shout in the distance. Javert turned with only a passive interest, but the monsters panicked.

"Kill him! Kill him now!" croaked the giant bird.

_What is his name?_ Javert wondered. _I used to know._

The worm growled.

_Could worms growl?_

She struck out with her tail, knocking Javert over. He fell flat on his back, air driven harshly from his lungs. Before he could pull himself away, the worm bunched herself up and launched her body onto Javert's chest. The shaky breath he'd drawn was expelled as quickly as the first. At close quarters, the Inspector received an enlightening view of the creature's mandibles.

_Tcaridyi, _he thought. _That's this one's name._ Javert was duly impressed by the realistic nature of whatever hallucination he was being subjected to. Usually, he would have woken up by now. All preponderance was driven from his mind, however, when the gaping jaws of the maggot worm closed around his forearm.

Javert cried aloud, more from surprise than from pain. A bizarre numbness had in fact overtaken the spot where he'd been bitten - adrenaline was an astonishing painkiller. He was still asleep. Shouldn't such an attack have woken him?

The second surprise was an answering shout from somewhere behind the other two demons. Instantly, the Inspector linked the shout with the "friends" the animal-headed man had mentioned earlier. Given that this hallucination was rapidly becoming uncomfortable, Javert made the executive decision to participate for the time being.

"Over here!" he shouted. With a fierce twist of his arm, he pulled it free of the worm's pincer-like mouth. "By the river!" he called again. There was another exclamation from back in the forest. The Inspector could only hope that the voices belonged to someone inclined to be helpful to him.

Tcaridyi was not pleased with Javert's outburst. "Silence," she hissed, "or I will destroy you slowly."

Javert grabbed hold of what scraps of mythology he still remembered.

"You're bluffing," he said with more confidence than he felt. "You only ever hurt people. It's not your nature to kill them."

The worm laughed, a sort of hideous clicking sound.

"What right have you to say what I can and cannot do? You, who never bothered to pay attention to the legends of your own people? It is _you _who bluff - I've been promoted. You see? Even my brothers give me first choice of sport."

She punctuated her final sentence with a dive for the Inspector's uninjured arm. He had managed to wrest this from under the worm's bulbous body while she talked, and now this fragile victory proved to be a life-saving diversion. As Tcaridyi thrust her jaws at Javert's arm, he grabbed hold of one giant pincer and shoved her to the side. He was in no condition to actually mount an offensive against the creature, or even to push her off his legs. It was all he could do to sit up and breathe deeply now that his lungs were no longer being crushed.

His brief respite, though fruitless had he been on his own, gave two people the opportunity to enter the clearing, a man and a woman. Both were human enough in form, though the woman had large white wings. The Inspector was passed the point of caring. Either they would rescue him or it would soon cease to matter.

Tcaridyi meanwhile had overcome her surprise at actually meeting with resistance. She rose up to as full a height as she could display and struck out, knocking Javert to the ground for the second time that day.

Javert had just resigned himself to either the grave or an asylum when something burst like fire in the back of the worm's head. The massive creature collapsed. The good news was that she was no longer attempting to chew off limbs. The bad news was that the worm landed more completely on the police Inspector's torso than ever, such that he well and truly was rendered unable to breathe. From the silence reigning in the clearing, it seemed the other demons had been similarly dispatched.

Gentle hands carefully pulled Javert out from under Tcaridyi's girth and helped him to his feet. Javert's head swam as he tried to focus on the faces of his saviors. It was no good. He was exhausted, nauseous, and in increasing amounts of pain as his body flushed adrenaline from his bloodstream. The Inspector collapsed, vision fading into blackness. He was senseless before he hit the ground.

* * *

The silent forest stood vigilant over the three figures, one incapable of moving, while the other two, shocked, stood frozen in place. It had been easier to find the Inspector than they had feared, but the circumstances under which they had found him were less than ideal. The winged woman pulled Javert's languorous body to a standing position, draping his arm around her shoulders. She looked up, eyes glazed with worry.

"What do you make of it, Amali?" the man asked her, his expression mirroring her concern. "He's not too badly hurt, surely?"

"It's worse than it looks. We've got to get him back to Paris immediately."

"My house, then. He will be okay, though, right?"

The woman lifted Javert into her arms, knowing perfectly well that had he been in any state of awareness he would have forbidden such presumptuous familiarity. When she finally faced her companion again, she'd smothered her fear in a mask of clinical objectivity.

"I don't know, Jean. I just don't know."


	2. In Which a Man Dreamt He Was a

Here we go again. One last author's note before we get going (I should have mentioned this in Chapter One, but oh well): I am, according to my dad, of distant Romani Gypsy heritage on his side of the family, but I couldn't prove that if I tried. Thus and therefore, I would just like to say that in employing these creatures of myth and legend, no offense is meant to anyone, anywhere. Okay? Cool. Please please please review this for me - I am always looking for advice and suggestions. Here is Chapter Two.

* * *

In Which a Man Dreamt He Was a Butterfly

There was a feeling like fire searing his veins, and someone was shaking him. If Javert could have remembered how to shout, he might have done so. However, the blackness, once comforting, had become oppressive and the Inspector could do nothing but fight silently against the silky bonds of unconsciousness.

Suddenly, the fire lessened, and Javert found he could open his eyes. His initial attempt to do so caused him a moment of distress, for though his eyes _were _open, he could see nothing. Then, with the rapidity of one who took even the smallest of details into immediate account, it occurred to Inspector Javert that the heaviness over his vision was not that of blindness, but that of a heavy fabric. Blindfolded, then, he decided.

Unfortunately for Javert, that selfsame attention to detail forced him to forgo his comfortable conclusion almost as soon as he decided upon it. For one thing, blindfolds were rarely wet, or at least not when the rest of a prisoner's head was still dry. For another, the primary characteristic of a blindfold was that it was tied in place. This cloth was not, and its dampness was cool against his burning forehead.

Javert had seen, on occasion, a mother place a wet cloth against the brow of a child stricken with fever. To all appearances, someone had thought to do the same to him. It was foolish and sentimental, but if a fever it was, then the hallucinations were easily enough explained. Gritting his teeth, the Inspector forced himself up into a sitting position, dragging the cloth from his face.

There was a sharp intake of breath from his side, but Javert paid it no mind. Let the doctor wait for a few seconds - he would survey the room first. In the Inspector's experience, it was often more important to know the lay of the land than one's opponent. He was sitting in a bed covered by a thin sheet; this was in the center of the wall. To his right was a window (always good to bear those in mind), and across the room was a small desk. The door was just to the left thereof, which left the chair, also to his left, on which the other occupant of the room was seated. Otherwise, the whitewashed room was bare.

The Inspector was carefully gauging the distance between himself and the aforementioned door when the room's other occupant, apparently realizing he was being ignored, spoke.

"I was beginning to think you'd never wake up."

Javert turned slowly, his stomach suddenly somewhere in the region of his shoes. He knew that voice uncannily well.

"Valjean." It was not a question but a statement, for of course it was he. It always was.

Jean Valjean inclined his head slightly, his face expressionless.

"Everything is much plainer now."

The Inspector had completed his calculations regarding distance to the door and was on his feet before Valjean had the opportunity to reply. What Javert had not accounted for was his physical well being, or rather, lack thereof. He swayed where he stood, trembling slightly as a fresh wave of agony washed over him.

"Sit," Valjean commanded, pushing Javert back onto the bed. "You are unwell. You will hurt yourself."

Javert laughed harshly. "Do not try to make me believe that my condition is not your fault - you will fail."

Valjean did not look surprised by this pronouncement, which only served to more firmly cement Javert's suspicion of the man's guilt.

"What is it exactly that you think I have done?" Valjean's voice was calm and collected. He could have been discussing the weather.

"You know perfectly well what I am getting at."

"Let us say, for the sake of argument, that I do not."

Javert growled in his throat. "You want me to spell it out for you? Fine. You've always hated me, and you saw your chance for revenge and took it. I've obviously been abducted and probably drugged - that would explain both my hallucinations and present discomfort. Now it's only a question of how you're going to finish the job. Are you going to kill me outright, or torture me first? Either way, get on with it. I'm a busy man."

The Inspector crossed his arms across his chest and leaned back against the pillows. He was the graven image of a sainted martyr staring Death in the face, except for a single detail: the fact that he had completely misjudged the entire situation.

Valjean's initial response to this statement was to chuckle noiselessly behind his hand. When Javert did not move, however, he realized just how seriously the police Inspector believed what he said. It distressed the man to discover that Javert truly thought Valjean meant him harm.

"Listen," Valjean said, attempting to impress his sincerity upon the Inspector. "I have no intention of hurting you, and haven't felt the slightest animosity towards you in years. You must believe that."

Javert sneered. "You're asking _me,_ of all people, to take a convict's word? No, I don't believe it. You want something from me - your freedom, probably - in exchange for my life. And when you realize I won't agree to any such demand, you'll cut my throat."

Valjean sighed, burying his head in his hands. "Amali said you'd be difficult, but I'm afraid I didn't understand just how much."

"Amali?" The Inspector was caught off guard. "I didn't realize there was a Mrs. Valjean. Or is she as disreputable a woman as you are a man?"

Valjean could feel his face flush. "I do not believe the intimacies of my life are any of your concern, Inspector. Besides, that is hardly the point. The fact of the matter is that you were attacked, and she and I intend to make sure it does not happen again."

The mockery faded from Javert's eyes. "Attacked? How do you mean?"

"I think, this time, it is you who know what I am talking about."

"The... demons." Javert's voice was flat, toneless. "But that was..."

Subconsciously, he rubbed the spot where Tcaridyi had bitten him. To his surprise, he found bandages under his fingers. Then his face grew stormy again.

"You must think me a fool. I was drugged, cried out in my sleep, and you guessed some of what I saw. But what I saw was impossible - monsters do not exist, outside of the ones mankind creates. You wish to make me feel indebted to the people who are actually my captors, and I will not have it."

"Just let me explain." There was a real note of urgency in Valjean's voice. "The worm that bit you carried a heavy dose of venom in its jaws. Amali was able to heal you, but it was almost too late. That's why you still feel ill. If anyone drugged you, it was the demon - _I_ certainly did not."

Javert narrowed his eyes. "That is the second time you've mentioned this girl. Who is she?"

At that moment, the door flung open, and a young woman stepped in. Javert sat up in astonishment.

"I've been waiting for you to ask," she said, her voice ringing in the small room. "I am Amali."

The girl had wings.

* * *

Amali was disarmingly beautiful, which made Javert trust her that much less. Everything about her was pale; she had skin the color of moonlight and wavy silver hair. Her dress was white, the same hue as her wings. _Wings_. Like those of a great bird of prey, but snowy. Her eyes, by contrast, were a startling sapphire.

Valjean gave a small smile.

"I take it you've been waiting out in the hallway all this time?"

"Only for a couple of minutes. I was down in the basement for a solid hour."

For a reason Javert could not fathom, the convict's face darkened.

"Ah."

Amali curtseyed to Javert, though by the humorous light in her eyes the Inspector judged that such formality was meant in jest.

"I am sorry you are uncomfortable," she said, a wry expression crossing her face. "I did what I could. Tcaridyi should not have been carrying such a poison."

If Javert had ever been flabbergasted before, he might have known what to call the rush of mingled amazement and confusion now flooding his person. As it was, the Inspector was not a man easily spooked, and had not, in his memory, ever experienced such consternation before.

"How do you know that name?" Javert decided to overlook the tremor in his voice, putting it down to sickness rather than nervousness.

"That was what the giant worm was called, was it not?" If Amali or Valjean had noticed the Inspector's sudden pallor, they both chose to ignore it. "I've made quite a study of world mythologies. It's always good to know who you're fighting before the fight starts."

"But -" the Inspector looked back and forth between the two. "But she doesn't exist. It was a dream or - Hell, who am I kidding? You have wings yourself. I'm still dreaming."

He fell back against the pillows, staring blankly at the ceiling. Amali scolded Valjean off the chair, taking the seat for herself and pulling it close to the bed.

"Inspector Javert, impossible as it may seem, you must try to trust your senses," she said quietly. "You are not dreaming, nor are you hallucinating. The road to madness lies in doubting what your body knows to be true."

The Inspector gave her such a glare that the girl actually cringed. Valjean stepped forward, offering to take up the narrative, but Amali waved him away.

"You have to listen to me, Javert. I will not lie to you. Just give me the chance to prove it."

At last, some of the mistrust in the Inspector's eyes vanished, to be replaced with something like resignation.

"Very well," he said. "I will hear you out, if you can prove to me that you are worth listening to. I hardly have a choice, seeing as I can't go anywhere. Tell me first the names of the other two creatures who made an attempt on my life."

"Will that convince you that I exist, at the very least?"

"No. But it is a start."

Valjean grinned, but like his laughter before he smothered the expression in his hand. He knew Amali would wear Javert down eventually. She knew him better than anyone else could.

"As you wish, then. The seven-headed creature is called Poreskoro. The green bird, actually the nastiest of the three, is known as Melalo. Does that answer suffice?" Sitting back and folding her arms, the resemblance between her countenance and Javert's was almost spooky.

"Not exactly." Javert frowned, running a hand through his dark hair. "What do you mean by 'the creatures _are_ called'? Aren't they dead?"

"Hardly."

"Tcaridyi collapsed. I saw it."

"She collapsed. But she did not die. Regrettably, demons are, along with a whole host of other creatures, immortal."

The Inspector's frown deepened. Valjean could practically hear new lines being chiseled on his brow.

"Immortal? First you ask me to believe in creatures out of a children's story, and then you expect me to believe they are immortal?"

Amali looked rather hurt. "Well, certainly! Demons, Guardians, Archangels, most Seraphim - they're all immortal entities. There's also dragons, and some elves, fairies, merrows and undines..." She continued her list for several minutes until Javert's head was positively spinning with the absurdity of it. He broke in amidst a rant on the distinction between varieties of troll.

"Be _silent_, would you?"

Immediately, there was absolute stillness. Amali's mouth remained open, but no sound was emitted therefrom. Valjean too was gaping slightly, staring at the Inspector.

"Thank you." Javert looked utterly without remorse at the pair of them. "Now, while we're discussing nonsense, how about you tell me what _you_ are."

"May I talk now?" Amali asked, her voice meek and very, very soft.

"I did just ask you to, didn't I?"

The woman cleared her throat. "I am a Guardian."

"A guardian of what? Wait, nevermind," he added, as Amali opened her mouth to reply. "Wasn't that one of the 'entities' you just listed as being immortal?"

Javert expected a little laugh, and something to the effect of "Hmm? Oh no, not me. That's a different sort of guard." In point of fact, he did get the laugh. But the sentence following it was not the one he had heard in his head.

"Why yes, actually. How nice of you to pay attention. I am a Guardian, deathless and unchanging. It's lovely, by the way, to make your acquaintance, Inspector."


	3. In Which Answers are the Same as

Chapter Three: In Which Answers are the Same as Questions

The sun was setting when Javert told Amali he was hungry. It wasn't quite the truth, but it wasn't quite a lie, either. Actually, Javert couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten, and the prospect of food was appealing. That was not the reason he'd spoken up though; mostly, the Inspector wanted a few quiet minutes to sort through the day's events.

At his request, Amali had recounted what had happened during his spell of unconsciousness. Allegedly, Valjean had offered his home as a makeshift clinic, though why he should so readily offer his dwelling to a known enemy Javert couldn't see. When Javert pointed out how illogical this was, the girl simply shrugged and said that compassion was an illogical force of nature. Javert had scoffed, informing her that he didn't accept the idea of genuine compassion, to which Amali had replied with an enigmatic "I know."

The story had gotten progressively more bizarre until Javert was quite certain he had gone mad. According to Amali's version of events, she had used all the powers of healing at her disposal to counteract the worst effects of Tcaridyi's venom. This apparently had left the unfortunate Guardian so drained of power that she had collapsed in Valjean's basement, which she was borrowing for the duration of her stay.

"Why was Valjean upset when you said you'd spent an hour down there?" Javert had asked.

"He doesn't care to see anyone, myself included, in a state of distress. And of course he feels guilty that he can't do more to help."

It was a reasonable explanation, but it had been an unreasonable sort of day, and Amali did not quite meet Javert's eyes when she told him this. The too-perceptive Inspector was left to puzzle over what the girl was not telling him, for as if by some unspoken signal Valjean entered the room immediately thereafter and Amali ducked out.

It was very odd - other than when the Inspector had first woken, the pair had never been in his room together at the same time for more than a few seconds. At first, these extended periods alone in Valjean's company had made Javert deeply uncomfortable, but as the day wore on it dawned on him that the man could dispose of him any time he chose to do so but he hadn't yet, which suggested that he also wasn't likely to try anything in the near future. He also had yet to make any demands in exchange for the Inspector's freedom, so for the time being Javert was content to just lie in place and be snarky.

As it turned out, the lying in place was the easy part. As much as Javert hated being fawned over by anyone, least of all a dangerous thief, he had very little choice in the matter. Anytime he so much as rolled over he suffered a minute of blinding dizziness and Valjean's chiding. Javert couldn't decide which was worse.

No, the hard thing was the bit about acting snarky. Or more accurately, it was hard to get Valjean to reply to his biting commentary. There was no point in exercising one's talent for sarcasm if the other person was totally uninterested. After a few glib remarks regarding Valjean's décor, or lack thereof, to which Valjean simply shrugged, the unlikely pair fell silent.

That was two hours ago. At some point, Valjean had taken a small book from his pocket and scribbled in it; the scratching of quill on parchment seemed unnaturally loud in the otherwise quiet room. Then, just as Javert had swallowed his pride enough to ask Valjean a serious question, Amali walked in. The query died on Javert's lips and he shot her a look of deep disgust.

If it seemed that Amali clenched her fists slightly, as though something pained her, no one remarked upon it. Instead, Valjean stood, inclined his head in tacit greeting, and strolled across the room, only to pause at the door. Then he turned to Javert, wearing the expression common among those who have something to say but don't know how best to phrase it. As is traditional for persons employing such an expression, Valjean gave up trying to put words to his thoughts after a very pregnant pause. He left noiselessly, inclining his head once more as he did so.

Monsieur l'Inspector leaned back in the bed, trying and failing to decipher Valjean's cryptic behavior. Amali was chattering on about something; Javert rather wished she'd go away. After several hours of not speaking, he suddenly didn't care much for the company. No sooner had he thought as much than Amali's talkative stream petered out.

"But how silly of me - I haven't even asked how you're feeling. Can I get you anything?"

She had read his mind (which, by the way, was a perfectly accurate cliché in this case).

"If you're going to bother nursing me back to health, you may as well feed me," Javert had said dryly.

And now there he was, alone for the first time all day, watching the last of the sun's rays as they played over the iron footboard. He was no nearer to understanding what was happening than he was when he woke up. Monsters, a girl with wings, and a convict who acted like a self-conscious saint did not just wander through Paris, casually as you please, and yet here they were. Perhaps he really was going losing it.

That was a strange thought. The Inspector lived for order in the universe, and now it seemed that order was slipping through his fingers like water. The irony was not lost on him. He wondered briefly what cosmic power had laid this madness upon him. God, to the Inspector, was the Law's ultimate enforcer - unbending, never breaking, and always immaculately just. He must have done something, Javert decided, for justice to be brought upon him in this way. Perhaps he had not followed the Law as strictly as he ought to have. After all, he never had managed to put Valjean behind bars after the convict broke parole.

Speak of the devil. Or think of him, as it were. The chamber door swung open, and it was not Amali but Valjean who entered, bearing a bowl of steaming broth on a tray.

"I wanted to apologize for earlier, so I offered to bring up the food," he explained, settling the tray carefully on Javert's lap. When he looked up, the Inspector was examining him with an air of mild curiosity.

"For what, exactly, are you apologizing? The part where you kidnapped and drugged me?"

Valjean laughed. "Hardly. I will not apologize for something I've not done. I would ask your forgiveness if being in my home is a strange experience for you, but Amali and I agreed that we could not trust a doctor to be discreet enough. No, I was going to apologize for being exceptionally poor at making conversation, and thought we might try again."

Javert rolled his eyes, a gesture that some would consider mocking, but was in fact as close an expression to acquiescence as he was willing to offer. He then raised a spoonful of soup to his lips, only to pause and raise an eyebrow quizzically at Valjean. The other man immediately understood the Inspector's hesitation.

"You're quite safe drinking that. I haven't done anything to it, and Amali said that if you wanted to take laudanum for the headache that you should do so _after_ you eat."

The Inspector rolled his eyes again, but drank the soup anyway.

"Let's pretend for a moment that I take you at your word," he said once he'd eaten some. "Let's assume that I can somehow believe that demons exist, and Guardians, and whatever the hell the girl was talking about earlier. What then? I get better, I leave, I arrest you, and live happily ever after?"

"Well," Valjean began slowly, "you'll find it difficult to get me arrested here. I can't explain exactly what happened, but everyone here knows me as Jean Valjean, and all are aware of my... _colorful_ past. As for leaving, you are certainly welcome to leave if you feel the need to do so, but the creatures who attacked you before are still out there. You're safest with Amali and I, although I know that's hardly what you want to hear."

"I thought you might say something like that," Javert said, nodding. When Valjean looked surprised, he smirked. "Everything here has made so little sense that I'm beginning to expect impossibilities as the answer to every question I ask. Very well then. In accordance with the previous assumptions, I then want to know - _why_ are these creatures after me?"

Valjean shook his head. "I haven't the foggiest. Amali doesn't know either, and I can tell it has her worried. We knew where you were before anyone but the Archangels, and they still beat us to you."

This time, it was Javert's turn to shake his head. "Angels. Wonderful. These explanations keep getting better. I suppose you have a carriage drawn by unicorns or some such?"

"Hardly. But please don't give Amali any ideas."

Javert's expression was priceless, though it was not until Valjean laughed lightly that he realized it had been a joke. Then Valjean sobered.

"In all seriousness, this ought not to have happened. I can only think that someone was listening in on the Council's meeting."

"Now there's a Council in this? Pray tell, who are they?"

"The Council of the Seven Angels. Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, and Michael all have permanent seats, since they're the Archangels. The other three positions rotate. I think it's Raguel, Remiel, and Saraqael in power right now, but I could be wrong. I was never good at remembering Hebrew names."

Javert nodded vaguely. He recognized some of the heavenly beings from the Bible, though the Holy Book had never provided an explanation for his current situation.

"That's all well and good, but it still doesn't explain how I got here, or why my previously monster-free existence is now full of supernatural creatures. Take Amali for instance. What on earth is a Guardian?"

Valjean's response suggested that he thought Javert was being rather slow. "The wings weren't a give-away clue? She is an angel, my good Inspector, a Guardian Angel. Specifically, _your_ Guardian."

"Oh. Of course."

It was a trifle obvious, in fact, but Javert had never given such things any credence before, and he wasn't especially keen on doing so now. He had a single other question to ask, for the time being.

"If I'm seeing my Guardian Angel, does that mean I've gone and died or something?"

A strange expression crossed Valjean's face, but it vanished before Javert could place it.

"You don't have to be dead to see your Guardian Angel. If you did, then the living wouldn't know such beings exist."

It was not until much later that night, when Valjean was long gone and the candle blown out, that the Inspector realized that he hadn't really answered the question.

* * *

When Javert opened his eyes, it was still dark; through the window, the sky was the deep purple-grey that comes just before dawn. He wondered what had woken him when he noticed a wavering light slipping through the slit under the door, as though someone outside were holding a candle. Then he heard hushed voices.

"- really jumped off a bridge?"

That had to be Valjean.

"Unfortunately. And the Council is being stricter about the procedure than usual. Did I tell you they put a limit on my capacity to heal the three of us?"

Amali. But as for what they were talking about...

"Is that why you couldn't fix him up fully, then? I thought that seemed strange."

"It is. But then, they've always been a little touchy about the suicide issue."

"Wasn't this whole... _circumstance_ the idea of the Lord himself, though?"

"It was, but angels, especially Archangels, dislike change no matter who is ordering it."

"Well, I think this way is much more sensi-"

He stopped, at Amali's frantic shushing.

"He's awake. How much do you think he overheard?"

There was a nervous tremor to Amali's voice that convinced Javert of the conversation's significance. What did she not want him to find out?

"Nothing of importance, I don't think. Besides, there's a door between us, and a room. I doubt he could hear us."

"I wouldn't be sure of that."

Javert heard the creaking of the knob; quickly, he closed his eyes, to all appearances still asleep.

Amali peered into the gloom.

"Hmm," he heard her murmur. "I would have sworn... Ah well. Cup of tea?"

The door closed, and Javert was staring into the darkness. One thing was certain. He was not going to stay here. Briefly, he considered returning to his apartment, but discarded the idea almost immediately. Rationally speaking, it and the police station would be the first places Valjean would think to check when they found him missing. The Inspector very deliberately ignored the bit of him suggesting that the demon-creatures might think to look for him there as well, because of course, there were no such things. His headache was going to make running (or generally moving) brutal, so he'd hire a fiacre.

There was a comfortable little tavern on the Rue des Ange that had rooms to let. The Inspector could go there first and find out what was going on.

Valjean and Amali were sipping cups of tea in front of the living room fire. Neither of them heard the thud on the opposite side of the house, as of someone carefully dropping from a second-story window. They also failed to notice the stealthy darting of a nigh-invisible individual across the garden, and the same individual's hoisting himself over the garden wall with all the skill of a police spy. It would be well after dawn before either of them noticed anything amiss at all.


	4. In Which Hide and Seek Has Its Dangers

Thank you so much to those who have reviewed thus far - I really appreciate the encouragement! I was asked for more angst and jealous!Javert, and I hope to provide as much in chapter five. I'd had plans to include it here, but this chapter really got away from me and got super long super quickly (darn that plot exposition!). I do hope that's okay with everyone. Anyway, here is Chapter Four...

* * *

...In Which Hide and Seek Has Its Dangers

Even half-asleep in the basement, Amali could hear Valjean's strangled exclamation. It had been a long night, and they had both slept in later than usual. Actually, the fact that Amali had slept at all was unusual. Perhaps the humans were rubbing off on her. Rolling groggily out of her makeshift bed, she climbed the stairs slowly and poked her head up to the first floor.

"What's wrong?" she called. "Do I need to go and separate you boys?" She chuckled at her own joke until Valjean decided to forgo conventional means of conversation.

_He's gone._ Valjean's voice burst across her consciousness, his anxiety palpable; Amali actually staggered back slightly.

_Beg your pardon? _she replied, though she had the awful feeling that she knew exactly what Valjean was talking about.

_Javert is gone. Jumped out the window by the look of things. He even had the nerve to fold the blankets before he left._

Amali reached the second floor with a speed that could only be described as inhuman, finding Valjean sagging heavily against the doorframe of the guest room. The sight that greeted her was something out of a personal nightmare, but to anyone else, the scene was one of peaceful tranquility.

The room was the same as ever, except that, sure enough, the sheets had been removed from the bed, folded military-style, and left on the desk. The window was open, letting in a gentle breeze along with the sunshine. And then there was the absence of the Inspector, which was almost a tangible non-presence in and of itself.

"By all things sacred," Amali murmured. "He must really not want me to know where he is - I haven't even the vaguest clue. Unfortunately, that puts his opposition at an advantage as much as it disadvantages us."

Valjean turned to face her, anger commingled with concern written in every line of his face.

"Why? Why would he do this?"

"Because he's stubborn and independent, and hasn't yet come to terms with this version of reality. In all honesty, we ought to have seen this coming."

Valjean deflated, his expression turning to one of defeat.

"You're right, of course. What do we do?"

For a moment, Amali did nothing but stare into empty space. Valjean was just beginning to wonder if she had heard him when she spoke.

"We'll have to split up - it's not ideal, but we'll cover more ground. I don't think he'll have left Paris; he knows the city, and all the best places to disappear in it. You start a search north of the Seine, and I'll take the south. Ask around - see if anyone saw him. Go in disguise for subtlety's sake. I doubt he'll go back to his apartment, but it's possible he checked in at the police depot, so I'll look there. You know how to contact me if you need me, right?"

_Right_.

It wasn't a hard thing to do, really. A Guardian's entire purpose was to be there when their charge needed them, so just thinking about talking to a Guardian was usually enough to establish a mental link, or by thinking about their Name. Of course, Guardians couldn't always answer, depending on the circumstances, but they always listened.

"Okay. If either of us finds anything, we'll check in."

Amali shifted her weight and disappeared, reincorporating somewhere down on street level. Valjean sighed, wishing he had the capacity to move that quickly. Finding the Inspector in the city of Paris had the potential to take forever and a day, and they were running out of time.

* * *

When Javert arrived at Auberge de l'Enfer, he was already in a sour mood. It had occurred to him when trying to hail a fiacre that he didn't have a franc on him, so he had had to return to his apartment, despite his serious misgivings regarding the wisdom thereof, and pick up what remained of the previous week's commission. The inn's condition did little to improve Javert's mood.

The last time Javert had spent the night at that particular tavern, it had been a pleasant little place. Now it had apparently changed owners, names, and as far as the Inspector could tell, everything else besides the address. The once-clean establishment was grimy and populated in part by a couple of people Javert was quite sure belonged behind bars. He sneered slightly as he examined his surroundings, before deliberately making his way to the barkeeper on the other end of the dining hall.

Around him, men sprawled in rickety wooden chairs drinking ale like their lives depended on it. A few scantily-clad women were serving food that would have looked more appropriate in a chamber pot than on a plate, and those people who noticed Javert's entrance treated him to glares that made it clear anyone remotely well-dressed was unwelcome at the Auberge.

Of course, the usually immaculate Inspector was hardly looking his finest; his clothes needed a good rinsing, and his arms were still bandaged. He was almost afraid to examine the condition of his hair. Nevertheless, Javert felt positively well-groomed next to most of the other patrons, and for once wasn't sure that was a good thing. If anyone was looking for him, a police Inspector at a place like this was sure to be mentioned. Still, no one would ever believe that Javert was of his own free will frequenting a place like this, so perhaps the inn would suffice as (very) temporary accommodations.

The bartender was wiping down the long table with a (dirty) cloth when Javert stopped in front of him. The man didn't even bother looking up until the Inspector slid a twenty-franc note across the bar to him. When finally he did raise his eyes to Javert, however, it was followed by a start of surprise. Inwardly, the Inspector smiled grimly. This "gentleman" was clearly not pleased to see an officer of the police in his tavern.

"You looking for information?" the man asked, squinting closely at Javert. "'Cause I don't give up information. It's bad for business, innit?"

"I am a paying customer," Javert told him coldly. "I require lodgings for the evening, and a meal if you have anything in the building that is actually edible."

Slowly, the barkeep took hold of the Inspector's money and, folding it, tucked it into a pocket.

"We've got a room upstairs open. You go on up, and I'll send a girl up with your food in a bit." Leaning closer, he added with a conspiratorial wink "She'll stay the evening, too, if you tip her good."

The Inspector's voice, if it were possible, was even colder than before. "That will hardly be necessary. Just send her with the food. Also, I'm not taking visitors, unless they're also from the police. I'd hate to be disturbed by anyone unwelcome; I might have to do a proper inspection of this place if I am."

The barkeep nodded quickly, suddenly wishing very hard that this intimidating member of the Parisian police had never entered his inn, no matter how well he paid.

"Your key, sir," he said, handing Javert the required piece of brass. "Your room is up the stairs, second door to the left, and, er-"

A second man had arrived at the bar. He was hidden underneath a broad hat and a cloak that swept the ground; he could have been tall or short, broad or thin, even male or female, depending on how one looked at him. Javert had an immediate, overwhelming sense of danger, but then the intruder raised his hand and the cries of intuition were silenced. What had he been so worried about? The man tapped the counter-top once, and the bartender's eyes slid to Javert.

"Oh, your, er, usual, sir? Of course, of course. Just a few minutes." The barkeeper was flustered, his eyes continuously darting between the Inspector and the other customer. Javert felt this ought to be concerning behavior, but he just couldn't bring himself to be bothered by it.

"I'll be waiting for dinner upstairs. Make it quick," Javert said, turning with a slight frown on his face. Now that he tried to think about it, he found that his memories of the last minute or so were hazy at best. There had definitely been a second customer - or had there been? The Inspector looked behind him quickly, but if there had ever been a third man standing at the bar, he was gone now. By the time Javert reached the top of the stairs, he had practically forgotten the brief incident.

The room he'd rented was about what he had expected, and nothing close to what he'd paid for. The floor looked like it would probably be more comfortable than the bed, and would also have fewer bugs. He was leaving the following morning - that much was certain. He'd just eat a late breakfast and then do a bit of digging. He'd have to be careful, though. Amali and Valjean were sure to be looking for him.

* * *

_I've got it! _Amali exclaimed suddenly.

Valjean winced. No matter how many times it happened, he would never get used to suddenly sharing his thoughts with a second person. At least Amali usually spoke aloud; some angels would insist on steam-rolling a man's consciousness at any available opportunity.

_What have you got?_ If Valjean sounded a little tetchy, it was hardly his fault. After three false leads and two hours wandering the streets of Paris, the entire time consumed with concern and guilt, Valjean was not in his usually cheerful mood.

_He thought about us by Name. Finally._

_Ah._

Valjean had been wishing he had explained the circumstances better to the Inspector - perhaps if he had, Javert wouldn't have run off. But now, he thanked his lucky stars that he'd omitted at least one piece of valuable information: Amali couldn't find Javert if he didn't want to be found _unless_ he thought of her by Name. Names are powerful talismans, representing the whole of a person, and for a Guardian, they provided a fail-safe lifeline to their charge. There was a single other exception - Amali would know immediately if Javert was hurt. Otherwise, he may as well have been invisible.

_So where is he? _

Amali's reply, when it came, was excited.

_The Rue des Ange, by the look of things. That's only a couple of blocks from where you are._

Immediately, Valjean broke into a run.

_That's to the left, isn't it?_

If thoughts could nod, this one did.

_To the left, and then the second right. Tell me you did as I suggested and wore something unobtrusive._

If thoughts can nod, they may as well be able to roll their eyes as well.

_I'm not completely inept, you know. I did manage to go uncaptured by the police for several decades. Of _course_ I wore something that would blend in._

Amali's final thought, before she terminated the link, was wordless but conveyed the sense of apology. Valjean accepted that, and ran on.

* * *

In the kitchens of the Auberge de l'Enfer, the barkeeper (who had, in fact, actually purchased the place after his old employer shuffled off the mortal coil) was busy nagging the chef.

"He said he wanted something _edible_, so make it edible."

"I don't _do_ edible," the chef growled, which might have been more unusual if the chef was human.

"Well, he'll never eat it if it looks like the slop you feed to the boys," the exasperated barkeep told him. "And he _has_ to eat it. If he don't, _I'm_ the one who's going to get in trouble for not poisoning him proper."

"It seems to me there's a lot easier ways to take care of a mortal, 'specially if he's being so damn annoying."

"Shut _up_," the man hissed. "The walls have ears, and that ain't even a figure o' speech! You don't like it, you can go tell _Him_ that!"

The chef grumbled something unprintable (even by demon standards) and nudged a bowl over to the barkeep. An optimist would have called it a mutton stew. A pessimist would have called it sewage. Javert would have had something even worse to say about it, but for the sake of cultural sensitivity, that shan't be elaborated on.

"It'll have to do," the tavern keeper sighed. He withdrew a small glass vial from his breast-pocket and poured the dark liquid into the stew. It would kill anyone who ate two spoonfuls of it, but it might make it taste better. "Elisabeta!"

A very pretty, dark haired girl entered the kitchen, holding a tray. Her hands were shaking. She accepted the bowl like one might a venomous snake.

"Wh - which room?" she managed, giving her employer a tight smile.

"Second to the left," he said callously, not at all concerned that his serving girl was utterly terrified. She turned to go. One could see on each of her shoulders two identical scars. They probably continued down the length of her back, under her corset. Perhaps scars weren't atypical for girls in her profession. However, seen in the right light, one almost might entertain the notion that Elisabeta once had wings.

* * *

There was a hesitant knock at the door.

"Enter," Javert commanded without turning around. He was adjusting his greatcoat as best he could to hide his bandaged arms. No matter what he did to the sleeves, they seemed lumpy to him. With a frustrated sigh, the Inspector turned and gave his visitor a once-over.

The barkeep's girl (for it could only be she) was carrying a bowl of soup carefully on a plate. A small roll was on a plate next to it. The girl herself was underdressed and wearing far more cosmetics than was respectable. Javert took the tray from her, and on second thought handed her the roll as well.

"You look like you need it more than I do," he said sternly, but the girl shook her head.

"No," she whispered. "Eat it. Not the soup."

Javert's eyebrows contracted.

"A roll by itself is hardly a meal, girl."

She only shook her head again.

"Not the soup." Her voice was firmer, though she was trembling violently.

There was clearly something wrong with the girl. Javert nodded to humor her, but when she left, it was sadly, as though she knew he was lying. Or perhaps she was just disappointed he hadn't paid her to stay longer.

Javert sat gingerly on the bed and raised a spoonful of soup to his lips.


	5. In Which Only Books Can Be Judged By

Well, here it is. The characters wouldn't let me go to sleep last night, because everyone had different opinions on how this chapter should go. I tried to include the best of everyone's ideas, though Javert is probably going to burn me at the stake later. I'm also not positive on the quality of the dialogue here, so please review with your opinions.

* * *

In Which Only Books Can Be Judged By Appearances

Valjean came, panting, to a halt. He'd been up and down the Rue des Ange half a dozen times now, and no matter what Amali said, he hadn't seen a single place that looked anything like Javert's usual haunts. He was just about to tell her as much when she appeared suddenly in the alleyway next to him.

"Sorry. I got here as fast as I could." She was breathing as hard as he was. "There was a _lot_ of traffic on the astral plane today. Any sign of him?"

"None. You're sure he was here?"

"Positive. I suppose he could have moved on, but I felt so sure -" She stopped abruptly, all the color draining from her face. "Mon Dieu."

Without another word or explanation, Amali grabbed Valjean by the hand and stepped through space. It was an odd sensation, Valjean decided, because it felt exactly like walking, but he knew he was actually going impossibly fast. As if by a gust of wind, the door to a tavern, also serviceable as an inn, blew open. Before the Guardian dragged him inside, Valjean caught a glimpse of the name.

"The Auberge de l'Enfer? He came _here_?"

Amali nodded grimly, her face set. The pair breezed across the dining hall and up the stairs. Not a single pair of eyes, human or otherwise, noticed their passing. The second door on the left burst open under her glare, as if the wood itself were frightened by the angry angel.

Entering the rented space, Amali at last let Valjean's hand go. Immediately, everything around him seemed comically slow-motion - human bodies weren't meant to traverse hundreds of feet in a second, and Valjean was now experiencing what would eventually be referred to as "velocitation". Then he noticed the room.

"Valjean." Amali was speaking to him, but it didn't quite register through the fog of despair that had suddenly settled like a blanket over his mind. The man took a few unsteady steps forward and sank to his knees. Javert was lying rigid on the ground, an overturned bowl of soup next to him, and a roll clutched in his hand. Foaming slightly at the mouth, his eyes were half closed. He was hardly breathing.

"Valjean. This-" Valjean looked up slowly, meeting Amali's hopeless expression. "This is beyond my skill to heal. Maybe, _maybe_, if I were in full command of my power, but I told you, Michael put a limit on it, and -"

"How?" Valjean whispered.

"Poison," she told him miserably. "In the stew. The stuff practically burns to the touch."

"We had such a good chance to fix things. I just can't believe he's going to -" Valjean choked on the last word, crumpling into a ball. Valjean was more upset, he found, than he had any right to be. Javert was not a friend to him - indeed the Inspector would have seen him back under the lash faster than he could blink. But the idea of losing him a second time, here, so soon after meeting again was terrible.

Amali was about to reply when the door opened with a creak. She spun around instead, teeth bared. People think of angels as being all harps and fancy robes, but they can be downright terrifying when they want to be. Amali was passed the point of wanting to be scary; she was ready to rip anything that walked through the door limb from limb. And she probably would have, had not the individual who entered been a young woman. Rather than limb-ripping, Amali settled for grabbing the girl fiercely by the shoulders.

"What do you want?" the Guardian hissed.

"He ate the soup," Elisabeta murmured. "I told him not to, but he didn't listen."

Amali narrowed her eyes. "You knew about the soup and still _gave_ it to him? Do you have _any_ concept of what you've condemned him to?!"

The girl whimpered, but she met the angel's eyes. "Had to. H - husband made it, so I h - had to give it. I gave him the roll, too, but he didn't want that. They never do," she finished sadly.

Valjean raised his head like one in a dream.

"What's the roll got to do with it?"

Amali released Elisabeta in shock.

"Valjean, he still has it, right?" When the man had confirmed that Javert was, in fact, still clutching the roll in nothing short of a death grip, Amali started to smile. "Break off a piece."

The ex-convict stared at the small dinner roll. There was nothing special about it, even if it was unbelievably edible-looking for that particular establishment. Nevertheless, Valjean did as the Guardian told him, tearing a strip from the miniature loaf. Before him, Javert shuddered as if he knew the bread had been taken, but Amali quickly snatched the piece from Valjean's fingers and gently placed it in the Inspector's mouth. Elisabeta wandered somewhat closer.

There passed a minute in which it seemed that the entire history of the universe could have passed. Then Javert swallowed. The effect was immediate and obvious. His entire person relaxed, and it seemed that his breathing came much easier.

"Give him another piece, quickly!" Amali's instructions were hardly necessary - Valjean was like a man possessed, so frantic was he to get another chunk of bread in the Inspector's system. His fingers fumbled with it, and his hands were shaking, but it was done. And this time, Javert consumed it almost instantly.

Amali turned to Elisabeta, who was watching this with wide eyes. "Thank you. I don't think there is any way I can repay you for this, but if there's ever anything you need..."

To both the girls' everlasting surprise, Elisabeta smiled. "Taking a Keshalyi's wings is not the same as taking her power. I've been making the little biscuits for decades, but no one ever has time to eat them. You're the first Guardian we've had here doing a proper job." All trace of fear had vanished from the girl, and in that instant, one could see how she might once have looked as one of the Fair Folk, proud and full of life.

Amali smiled herself, but it was not a happy smile. It spoke of resignation and self-loathing, tempered by a touch of pity. "If I were a 'proper' Guardian, my charge would never have been in this position in the first place. I should never have -"

She was interrupted by a fit of coughing from behind her.

"That's my cue to leave," Elisabeta whispered. "Goodbye. Perhaps we will meet again."

She slipped out the door, and Amali in turn dragged Valjean away from Javert.

"What on Earth are you doing?" exclaimed an indignant Valjean.

"Do you want to get punched in the face?" a rather sardonic Amali asked him. "Because he's not going to be happy when he wakes up."

She was right. Javert's eyes flew open with a long and colorful string of curse words attached to them. Then he saw who he was sharing a room with.

"_You?! Again?!_ And I suppose you're going to expect me to believe that this isn't your fault as well!"

"Now, listen, Javert -" Valjean began, but Amali held up her hand and the Inspector barreled ahead through a fit of coughing.

"No, I will not 'listen, Javert'! This is the second time in as many days that the two of you have poisoned me, and I have _had_ it! Either finish me off properly, or leave me alone, because I -" What exactly he was, he never said. Instead, he finished with "I'm going to be sick."

He protested when Valjean stood to help him, but upon realizing he couldn't do a whole lot more than roll over, the Inspector allowed himself to be half-carried to the window in bad grace. Once there, Javert shrugged off Valjean and grabbed the windowsill, his knuckles turning white from the effort of holding himself up. For several of what he considered the most humiliating minutes of his life, he retched, and woe unto anyone standing anywhere in the near vicinity of that window. Valjean, at least, had the decency not to stare, or to revel aloud in what the Inspector was sure was a moment of glorious triumph.

When it seemed the only things left to throw up were organs, Javert turned around to face Amali, who had taken a place behind him, near the bed.

"Would you care to accuse us of trying to kill you again, after we just saved your life, or would you prefer to listen to reason?"

If she was trying to provoke him into reacting, it worked: without saying a word, Javert stepped forward and struck her across the face before collapsing, half on the bed and half off. There was a moment of stunned silence. Amali blinked a couple of times, touching her cheek lightly where he'd hit her. Even in the dim room, Valjean could see her pale skin turn a vivid red, raw color, like she'd been burned rather than hit.

Then, in a voice that was completely devoid of emotion or inflection, she said "That was completely uncalled for." She turned and stormed from the room, wiping something that looked like a tear from her face.

Valjean waited until Amali had slammed the door behind her to round on Javert.

"What the hell was that for?!"

Javert had never heard Valjean swear before, not even when the man had been in the galleys. He'd always been careful with his words. So it was that more than anything that put Javert on the defensive.

"The two of you just tried to kill me! I'd say she deserves quite a bit more than a smack on the cheek."

Valjean rubbed his face in his hands. "How can you be brilliant and completely dense at the same time? She is your _Guardian Angel!_ It would defeat the entire purpose of the job position to try and kill you. Do you have any idea what happens to a Guardian if they hurt their charge?"

Javert had the sudden sinking feeling that he'd just behaved like a complete fool. "Er... Not exactly."

"Not exactly," Valjean repeated, breathing deeply. "For your information, Guardians are supposed to protect their charges at any cost, unless a detrimental experience is required for personal growth or it's just their time to pass on. The penalty for failing to do so is the aforementioned Guardian experiencing any and all discomfort and injury that their charge was put through as a result of their negligence. Furthermore, should a charge be aware of their Guardian's presence and seek to punish them further for their neglect, the charge essentially has the power to do anything to the angel that they like. You didn't just slap her - you dumped every bit of pain and negative emotion you were feeling on her. She's probably huddled outside in a heap of feathers or something!"

From his place on the bed, Javert frowned. It was possible Valjean was lying, but something in his little rant suggested that his anger was guileless. If Amali hadn't tried to hurt him, then what he'd just done had been a complete injustice, which was unthinkable to the Inspector. He wasn't going to admit defeat quite yet though.

"If that's the case, then she should have stopped me from eating the blasted stew to begin with!"

Valjean's expression took on a haunted quality. "Yes. She should have. That never ought to have happened." The angry light returned to his eyes as quickly as it had left. "But it wouldn't have happened at all if you hadn't gone and run off last night! You couldn't just stay put, could you?"

This had just the right note of logic in it to make it sound true, and the last thing Javert wanted right then was to admit to Valjean that he'd been wrong. Thus, the Inspector made a rather transparent change in tactics. "You're only upset because you're sleeping with her. You had absolutely no right to hold me hostage in your house."

"I am not sleeping with her!"

"That's not what you said yesterday." Javert smiled inwardly at the look of cold fury on Valjean's face. He'd been getting a little tired of hearing about how sweet and innocent Amali was.

"I said that my personal life was none of your concern - it's not the same thing!"

"You're really not sleeping with her?" There was a note of surprise to Javert's voice; as far as he was concerned, the only professional reason for a man and woman to work together was strictly frowned upon in civilized society.

"Hardly."

Javert huffed. "I notice that you didn't bother refuting the fact that you were holding me hostage."

Groaning, Valjean turned to face the window. "I was just getting to that. You were never a prisoner, Inspector. If you had been, you wouldn't have had the opportunity to climb out the window. We were just trying to stop something exactly like this from happening. Again," he amended. "There's a lot of people here who would only be too happy to see you dead."

Javert smirked. "Apparently, that includes everyone besides you and the painted Jezebel."

Valjean whipped around. "Inspector, allow me to make this clear once and for all: your Guardian Angel is not, nor ever has been, anyone's prostitute, least of all mine. Although," he added, "if she had been, I'd really hate to think what that says about _you_."

Valjean thought he'd had the last word in the argument. Privately, Javert agreed. There really wasn't a way to respond to that; it was almost as biting as something he himself might have said. But unbeknownst to either of them, a third party had sidled into the room sometime in the midst of the commotion.

"Ahem," Amali said, stepping forward. Both men jumped, and Valjean's face cycled through several very interesting shades of red. "That is hardly the most flattering conversation I've ever overheard," she continued, stepping forward lightly. "But I'll let it pass for the time being. Do you have anything to say for yourself?" she asked, peering at Javert from under raised eyebrows.

The Inspector almost gave her a petulant remark in exchange for her trouble, but something told him he couldn't do that (that "something" was often referred to as a "conscience" by other people). Instead he bit his tongue and muttered an apology. When Valjean gave him a look, Javert rolled his eyes and pulled himself up as best he could.

"I am... sorry. I shouldn't have... behaved as I did." He couldn't quite bring himself to admit that he'd hit her, but it seemed to suffice. Amali's eyes fluttered, and most of the mark on her cheek disappeared.

"Thank you," she said, a genuine smile playing on her lips. "Now we have to figure out what to do with you. I suppose you'd balk if I suggested you return to Valjean's place on the Rue Plumet?"

Javert's eyes narrowed in answer.

"That's about what I figured. I suppose you might as well return to your apartment, but do me a favor and keep this on you." She handed Javert a pouch of a fine white powder.

"Salt?" he asked, quizzically examining the pouch's contents.

Amali nodded adamantly. "If you see anyone, and I mean anyone, suspicious, toss a bit at their person. Anything dark and supernatural abhors the stuff. It won't have the same effect on humans, though, so watch yourself. If you get into trouble, think about me. And when you go to sleep, pour a circle of the salt around your bed. Is that clear?"

Javert inclined his head slowly, apparently skeptical that he wasn't being dragged kicking and screaming back to Valjean's place. Valjean was himself somewhat surprised by this approach, but he didn't say anything.

The Inspector had the intention of marching out of the room then and there, head held high. When he tried, to stand, however, he remembered why he'd been sitting in the first place. Magic was great for detoxifying someone who's just been poisoned, but apparently did nothing for the after-effects. He would feel like he'd had a bad bout of flu for several days thereafter. Valjean suppressed a smile as the thwarted Javert failed in his attempts to stand. Sometimes he doubted Amali's judgement, but every time he did, she reminded him just how well she knew her job.

"Perhaps..." Javert began. "Perhaps I..."

"Yes?" Amali prompted, the picture of innocence.

"You're going to make me say it, aren't you?" Javert growled.

"Oh yeah," she said, a twisted grin forming on her face. "Consider it vengence for the 'painted Jezebel' remark."

"For an angel, you really are evil," Javert informed her. "Very well. Perhaps I require your assistance after all."

Valjean's eyes met Amali's.

"Call a fiacre," she told him. "Number 55, Rue Plumet."


	6. In Which a Hasty Exit is Made from the

Good morning, everyone. Sorry that this has taken me a while to write - I start school again tomorrow, so there have been a lot of preparations being made. Hopefully even with a busy schedule I'll be able to get updates to you in a timely fashion. 10 points to Gryffindor for anyone who can spot the teensy-weensy nod to Good Omens in this chapter. I give you Chapter Six...

* * *

In Which a Hasty Exit is Made From the Frying Pan

Amali thought it best not to leave the tavern by the front entrance in case whomever had poisoned the Inspector was still in the vicinity. She had put on her best impression of Javert interrogating someone (much to Valjean's amusement and Javert's chagrin), asking the bedridden Inspector if he had seen any suspicious persons who might have been responsible for the near-lethal incident. Try as he might to recall, Javert could think of no one suspect enough to stand out in the tavern's crowd of ne'er-do-wells, though he had the strong impression that he was forgetting something important.

And as Amali had put it, "If the ever-attentive Inspector forgot about something, then chances are good we don't want to meet what he's forgetting."

Getting out unnoticed was proving to be a greater challenge than anyone anticipated. Javert refused on pain of death to be carried, even after Amali pointed out that she was immortal, and he could hardly walk, so stepping through space was looking like a desperate option at best. Valjean suggested somewhat dryly that as the Inspector had climbed out a window the previous night, there was no reason he shouldn't be able to do it again. All eyes turned to the room's single, gritty window.

Though Valjean had meant it in jest, the Inspector decided to take the other man's words as a challenge - come Hell or high water (though the former seemed more likely), he would climb down by himself. The alternative, asking for help (_again_) was out of the question. If he fell to his death, at least he wouldn't have to endure any more of Valjean's smug expressions.

Therefore, a very worried Amali stood by, chewing nervously on her bottom lip as Javert straddled the windowsill. Valjean had already climbed deftly down and was waiting at the bottom, "just in case".

"I'll be fine," Javert told the angel, though in fact his forehead was already beaded with sweat from the effort of resisting gravity. "Stop mother-henning me." Carefully, he pulled his other leg out the window.

The back wall of the Auberge de l'Enfer was built out of dry-stacked stone that, through years of expansion and contraction, had developed a multitude of gaps and cracks. The tavern keeper had taken it upon himself to stuff bits of cloth and gristly food scraps in the holes that showed from the inside, which of course did nothing for the ones on the exterior of the building. While dangerous structurally, the wall was perfect for any nearly-incapacitated person needing to make a hasty escape from a second-story window. Javert had only to ease his way down, always finding another foothold within an easy reach.

By the time he reached the bottom, his vision was a bit spotty, but he hadn't slipped once. Stepping firmly onto the ground, the Inspector turned and faced Valjean. He leaned coolly back against the wall (definitely _not_ because he felt like he was going to throw up again) and allowed a sneer to pucker his lips briefly. Not in the least bit fooled, Valjean smiled warmly at Javert before waving Amali down. She stepped lightly out the window and landed, cat-like, next to the Inspector.

"About that fiacre..." Amali began.

Valjean merely pointed behind her to where a black carriage was just arriving.

"Excellent. Everybody in."

Javert stepped out of the way to let the other two pass, but Amali shook her head firmly.

"You first."

The Inspector sighed, but with all the dignity he could manage, he walked, straight-backed, to the carriage's side, climbing in with practiced ease. Valjean got in only after he'd held the door for Amali; then the driver cracked his whip and the horses started into a steady rhythm.

The gentle rocking of the carriage was soothing. Lulled by the motion and exhausted by the past twenty four hours, Javert blinked heavily, his eyelids two lead weights. Slowly, the Inspector's stony attentiveness weathered away, until at last Inspector Javert was deeply asleep, leaning against the window of the carriage. Valjean shared a smile with Amali, but neither spoke. They had won, and they both knew it. Nothing else needed to be said.

* * *

It was a ride of half an hour to the Rue Plumet from the Auberge de l'Enfer, perhaps more if pesky gamins were holding up traffic. The quiet street, when they arrived, was the same as ever, a beacon of safety in the midst of a city that was neither quite here nor quite there.

Number 55 was an unassuming brick house, set back from the street behind a low wall and a garden. The weeds ran rampant and ivy was trailing over the eaves, but Valjean liked it. If the house looked unkempt and disorderly to some, he found its untamed wildness moving. The thick purple blossoms of wisteria bowed the branches of the apple trees, and the air was fragrant with the perfume of summer flowers. All this Valjean saw as the fiacre slowed to a halt, and though the sight usually brought him peace of mind, he scarcely noticed it then.

It was Amali who broke the silence. "We should wake him."

Valjean sighed. "If we do, we'll never get him to fall asleep again and he'll insist on walking himself. Can't we just get him in the house?"

"I said that we _should_ wake him, not that we were going to. I just wanted to hear you say it first."

The man shook his head wearily, but a small smile spread across his lips.

"Very well. But I will carry him this time." When Amali made to protest, Valjean raised his hand to cut her off. "I know you're his Guardian; I understand that perfectly. But you know that he hates other people to see him in any state of perceived weakness, and given the choice between the two of us, I think he'd find it less demeaning to be carried by a man infamous for his strength rather than the demure angel."

"Me? Demure? Hardly." But the angel smiled her acquiescence - Valjean was of course correct. And if Valjean carried the Inspector, then Javert had no reasonable excuse to be angry with the Guardian.

Carefully, the older man bundled a sleeping Javert to him, the police Inspector's heavy greatcoat spilling through Valjean's fingers. There was something strangely mesmerizing about holding one's life-long antagonist in your arms; Javert barely stirred as Valjean lifted him, and yet even in sleep his face was tense, unyielding. His breathing was slow and even, and some of the color had returned to his cheeks.

Amali tapped Valjean lightly on the shoulder, and he realized he'd been standing there marveling rather longer than he'd intended. Hastily, he nodded and passed through Number 55's gate.

With a slight air of melancholy, Amali slid a weighty gold coin into the palm of the fiacre driver and made for the gate herself. Minutes later, the Rue Plumet was empty and quiet, just as it always was.

* * *

It was only when he blinked blearily that Javert discovered he'd been asleep. He found himself lying once more on a soft mattress, and surmised that he'd made it inside the house on Rue Plumet. _That_ meant that someone had carried him, but the Inspector's head was pounding too hard for him to properly form any sense of humiliation.

He rather guessed that that "someone" was sitting next to him again; indeed, a slight tilt of the head revealed Valjean's form reclining in a chair to his left. Valjean had probably been there the whole time Javert slept. The Inspector had the energy to find this mildly embarrassing, or at least a matter for confusion. Some of his perplexion was undoubtedly caused by the fact that he also found himself appreciative of the attention.

"'Morning," Javert murmured. His mouth felt dry.

Valjean's head snapped up. "Ah, Inspector, you're awake!"

"Thank you for stating the obvious." Javert's mouth twisted in a smirk, but he was rather surprised when Valjean smiled himself. Did he really find the Inspector amusing?

"I thought you might want some water, so I brought up a pitcher." Valjean gestured to the vessel on the floor next to him.

Javert waved his hand noncommittally. It could have been an expression of acceptance or dismissal, depending on how one wanted to look at it. Valjean apparently opted for the optimistic view and bent to pour a glass for the police Inspector. When he raised it, Javert made to take the glass himself, but Valjean firmly pressed his hand back to the bed.

"I can drink myself, Valjean," Javert told him icily.

"No, you can't. Your hands are shaking like leaves, in case you hadn't noticed. And I know you well enough to say that you'll be even more embarrassed asking for assistance after you spill water all over your lap than you will be if you just let me help you in the first place."

Javert glowered but permitted Valjean to hold the glass to his lips. The water was cool, and he quickly drained the cup.

"How is it," Javert sighed, "that I feel so much worse now than I did before I went to sleep? Surely the rest ought to have helped."

"You were excited before," Valjean explained. "When you slept, your body calmed down and the weight of your ordeal caught you up."

"Well, now I feel just plain lousy," the Inspector grumbled. "Can't the angel do something about it?"

In his chair, Valjean leaned his head heavily on one hand. "I'm afraid she's already done all she can for your condition. You recall the Council I mentioned? They have put a lock on her power, so to speak, so she cannot heal either of us or herself as fully as she would prefer."

Javert pricked up his ears. That's what he'd overheard Amali telling Valjean the night before.

"Why did they do that?" he asked as casually as he could manage.

"I'm not sure," Valjean admitted, frowning. "She beat around the bush a bit when I asked her. I think it's just procedure, given the, er, circumstances, but I could be mistaken."

"Which circumstances are those?"

Valjean fidgeted, suddenly looking deeply uncomfortable. "Well, you know, all this business with demons and the like - it makes the heavenly hosts a tad nervous."

Javert stared. "But wouldn't it make more sense to give her _more_ power when there's demons running all over the place?"

His companion just shrugged vaguely. "Oh, I never question ineffability, myself."

The Inspector decided that whatever Valjean wasn't telling him, he wasn't going to find out by asking directly. It was time, therefore, to change the subject. He sat quietly for a while, examining his fingernails. When he looked up, his expression was calculating.

"I notice that you haven't bothered to add any restraints to the bed since my escape attempt last night."

If Jean Valjean was thrown by that statement, he didn't show it. Instead, he cocked his head slightly and said only "I trust you."

For a moment, Javert could do nothing but stare again. Then he threw back his head and laughed, mirthlessly and, one might almost have thought, slightly hysterically. Then a coughing fit took over and he was forced to stop.

When finally he'd collected himself, Javert turned to an impassive Valjean. "_You_ trust _me?_ Of all the things I never thought I'd hear you say, that has to be at the top of the list. I have tried to put you in prison for two _decades_. You have every right to want me dead, and yet presented the opportunity numerous times, you insist on spiting me by not only leaving me alive, but actively trying to _protect_ me from whatever the hell is going on here! Why is it - _how_ is it - that you can even think about trusting me?"

Valjean succeeded in continuing to appear impassive, but inside he was a whirlwind of turmoil. What could he say? That he knew the Inspector could never actually follow through with his threats? That Javert had had the opportunity to arrest him but had jumped off a bridge instead? Because _that_ wouldn't be difficult to explain in the slightest.

And yet, it was Valjean's fault he had jumped. That was why they were both there, wasn't it? Because Valjean had spared the Inspector's life, and Javert's understanding of the world was so shattered that he'd been driven to kill himself. This was a chance to fix things. He owed Javert an explanation. In fact, he owed him a lot more than that, but some things were more difficult to repay than others.

"I trust you," he began slowly, "because you are, and always have been, a good man. You are committed, loyal, dutiful, and always brutally honest, even when it does you absolutely no favors. You perceive yourself indebted to Amali and I for saving your life; your sense of honor thus prohibits you from doing anything regrettable to either of us. You are seriously ill, and I doubt you'd get nearly as far as last night if you tried to run. And finally, you are here at your own request. It makes even less sense for you to have us bring you here and then escape than it did for you to disappear in the first place."

Javert leaned into the pillows and shut his eyes. "I feel morally obligated to argue with that, but I can't quite decide how to go about it."

"Don't worry," Valjean smiled. "I'll still be here when you figure it out."

"That's what I'm afraid of," the Inspector murmured tiredly.

When Valjean looked up, the man was already asleep.


	7. In Which Disappearance is Not Equivalent

My sincerest apologies regarding the wait on this newest chapter. First and fore-mostly, I started school last Monday, and have been settling into that schedule once more. In addition, we've been hosting a foreign exchange student, and I feel that spending time with her ought to take precedence to vegetating in front of the computer screen.

On a related note, I'd also like to apologize for this story's content hitherto. Upon reflection, it seems to me that I've provided a lot of action with very little explanation - sorry about that. I guarantee you that there's a plot hiding in here somewhere, and hopefully by chapter nine the nature thereof will be more apparent.

* * *

In Which Disappearance is Not Equivalent to Absence

The next several days ran their course, and Javert's condition improved slowly. The first to go were the dizzy spells, then the crippling headaches. Any traces of fever ebbed away, until the only indication that he had been poisoned was the weakness of muscle that confined him to bed rest. Javert was biting at the bit, eager to do anything other than lay in one place, but Valjean insisted that he was pushing himself too hard and that anyone who broke into a sweat just because they sat up had no place galavanting about the house. As could be expected, the Inspector was less than pleased with this diagnosis, but he suffered in what he hoped was a dignified silence.

Amali had made herself scarce; though she popped in to check on him at least twice a day, she always had to leave, citing a meeting or something similar as her excuse. Javert caught himself wondering if perhaps he'd upset her, or done something else to frighten her off.

When he realized he actually hoped that he hadn't, he gave himself a very stern talking-to. He hadn't done anything worse than make a few mordant comments, and even if he had, there was no reason he ought to care. He'd be gone as soon as he was well enough. At least, that's what he told himself. It seemed cowardly to even entertain the notion that he was safer (and perhaps happier?) here than anywhere else in this Paris-but-not-Paris.

* * *

It was the middle of the afternoon. Amali had disappeared, as per her usual of late, and Valjean was puttering around downstairs. Presumably, he was making a late lunch, but privately the Inspector felt the other man was trying to give him some time to himself; Javert had been in a particularly bad mood that morning.

Grumbling quietly, the police Inspector rolled onto his side, holding a small book in his hands. The novel was called _La Chartreuse de Parme;_ it was not particularly to Javert's tastes, especially as its protagonist couldn't seem to sneeze without doing something illegal, but reading it passed the time with marginally less tedium.

There was a knock at the door. Javert grunted in response, skimming the next page of his book. When the door opened, it was Amali who poked her head through. She smiled a little sheepishly.

"Hello, Inspector," she began, sidling inside the room.

"Good afternoon," Javert replied distantly. "Your meetings went well, I trust?"

Amali grimaced. "Things could have been worse, I suppose."

"That's not exactly a ringing endorsement."

The angel dropped into her chair, wings flopping to the side with a poof of feathers.

"My superiors are being... difficult," she explained delicately. "Some of them don't care for my way of handling things."

Javert breathed an internal sigh of relief - it seemed she had genuinely had other appointments. Then he berated himself in equal measure for worrying.

"I see nothing wrong with the way you conduct business," the Inspector informed her. "You've done a remarkably good job of keeping me alive so far."

A queer expression came over Amali's face. "It's... _funny _that you say that. My superiors would have to disagree. They feel I've been most lax in my duties."

Javert snorted. "And what exactly would they have had you do differently?"

"For starters?" Amali's eyebrows arched in grim amusement. "Never let you leave my sight, for one thing. A few of them are of the opinion that your escapade last week ought to have been stopped by force, if necessary. As if. Never mind the degree to which the former violates your right to privacy, the latter is just moronic. The Guardian has yet to be born who can forcibly stop her charge from doing anything he damn well pleases. I don't know why I even bother."

The Inspector could not prevent a small bubble of pride from swelling up in his chest at the thought that his particular angel was so keen on following the rules. Imagine, an Archangel in a position of authority blatantly suggesting that the Guardian disregard established regulations. Disgraceful.

Thoughtfully, he said "It's strange that they tell you to watch me constantly and then call you out to meetings. Surely they want you at the house to keep an eye on things?"

Amali frowned. "You noticed that too? I'd thought I was being silly - after all, Michael in particular has never forgone the chance to yell at me for something, but you _would_ expect them to come here, instead of the other way around. Not that I really want them here either," she conceded, "but it does seem unusual giving what I was being reprimanded -"

Amali stopped abruptly at the expression on the Inspector's face. He'd looked up and turned ghost-white.

* * *

Five minutes prior to these developments, Valjean was in the midst of a crisis. No matter where he looked, there wasn't an ounce of butter to be had in the house. There was jam enough, but it seemed wrong to serve the Inspector anything less than the best his modest cuisine could offer. Javert had been awfully snippy that morning, and Jean Valjean wanted his peace offering to be perfect.

He was sure he'd bought some; maybe Amali had seen it before she went upstairs. With the determination of a man on a mission, Valjean made to call her back down. She'd been by but a minute before.

There was the sound of something crackling near the coffee-table. Valjean turned in surprise.

There was a sort of black shape suspended in the middle of his living room. It could have been termed a circle, if the word was meant loosely. The edges seemed jagged, and it shimmered in the air like a heat mirage.

"What the -" Unless it was in the Bible, Jean Valjean was typically outside his area of expertise in dealing with things of a metaphysical nature, but he didn't feel that a black hole opening in the middle of one's house generally constituted a "good thing".

He spun on his heel, opening his mouth to call the angel. He raised his eyes to the stairs; just before his retinas had the opportunity to focus, something clobbered the unfortunate gentleman over his head. Valjean crumpled to to the floor.

* * *

"There's a... _thing_ behind you," Javert said with a very deliberate calm. "On the ceiling."

"Yes," Amali said with an equal degree of calm. "It's been there a little while now."

The Inspector coughed slightly. "Are you going to do something about it?"

"Presently," the angel decided, clapping her hands together. "Though I would _love_ to know how it got in the house."

"Wouldn't you though?" Melalo growled, dropping with a hefty thud on the wooden floorboards. In most cases, one would be surprised to hear a bird growl; in most cases, the bird in question is not green, two-headed, and six feet tall. One could look upon this demon and be so shocked by its appearance that the manner in which it spoke was the farthest thing from one's mind.

"What do you want, Melalo?" the angel asked, standing but retaining an apathetic countenance.

"You already know what I want." His double voices dripped menace like fetid slobber.

Amali smiled. It was a nice smile, or at least might have been deemed nice if she were a viper or a shark.

"It doesn't do to make assumptions. It's possible that you have a perfectly legitimate reason for bypassing my alarms and protective enchantments only to sneak up on myself and my charge whom, as I'm sure you recall, you attacked last week. If you do have such a reason, I advise you start talking."

The bird hissed, the feathers along its crest flattening.

"Give me your charge, and no harm will come to you."

Amali laughed aloud, though Javert could see nothing even remotely amusing in the situation.

"Give you my charge, and I won't be harmed? Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound? So much as entertaining the thought of complying with that ill-reasoned ultimatum would be followed by great personal discomfort."

Melalo hissed again, in that way that only birds do, more like a cat than a snake. It was especially disconcerting when there were two heads to do the threatening.

"It was worth a try," the demon said, advancing on the angel and, by extension, Javert.

Amali stood perfectly still, not in a state of petrification but rather of unadulterated nonchalance.

"I've never known you to even take a stab at subtlety, demon," she said casually. "Why the sudden change in approach? Or are you acting under someone else's orders?"

"I take orders from _no one_," Melalo spat, but his eyes bore a hunted quality that betrayed him.

Amali made note of this, but said nothing. As the great bird drew closer, and still the Guardian did not act, the Inspector pulled himself slowly backwards. He would edge along the wall until he was near the window. If he had to, he'd jump for it. He knew the odds of escaping the winged monster, even had he been in the peak of health, were slighter than a snowflake's chance in the Inferno, but he'd be damned if he'd sit and let himself be overcome.

The bird's yellow eyes bore down on him hungrily; for a moment, Javert's resolve faltered - what was the point of running when it would only delay the inevitable, and only that briefly?

Then the angel struck.

We have established that angels possess the ability to move with a supernatural degree of speed; in this case, the action in question occurred so swiftly that it was practically completed before it began: one second, Amali's arm hung limply at her side, and then it was raised in front of her, emitting brilliant sparks of electricity. The instant in which the appendage blurred from a vertical state to a horizontal one may not even have existed, for all Javert saw of it.

Astonished, Javert fell back against the headboard. Though she could have fried a man standing within ten feet of her reach, the girl remained totally detached from the situation; one eyebrow raised slightly provided the only indication of any interest in her actions whatsoever. Melalo shrank back from the arcs of light, growling furiously.

"That petty trick will not catch me twice," the bird croaked, darting suddenly through the lightning labyrinth, talons outstretched. It took a blast to the chest, but not before raking Amali's arm with a claw. The electric storm broke off as the angel took stock of the injury.

It wasn't horrible by any means, but it didn't look good, either - the wound was deep, and a steady stream of silver liquid ran in little rivulets down the length of the injured appendage.

When Amali looked up, her eyes were blazing; one could almost imagine that the erstwhile lightning was now emitting sparks from her gaze.

"You," she said quietly, her voice dangerous, "are infinitely lucky that this -" she gestured at her arm "- happened to me and not to him." She inclined her head in Javert's direction. "Because I swear to you on all that is sacred: if you hurt him, you will spontaneously become an immortal puddle on the floor. As it is..."

She raised her hand angrily; Melalo, who was already smoking slightly, took a hesitant hop-step back. There was an explosion such as Javert had only ever seen produced by gunpowder, and a dozen arcs of lightning erupted simultaneously in the demon's direction. There was a flash, and he was gone.

* * *

"Excellent work, Amali," the Inspector said, feeling slightly more than slightly shaken. "You disposed of that disgusting creature most effectively."

The angel frowned. "I wish I had. I fear he vanished before I caught him. This bodes ill - he ought never to have been able to enter the house."

It was the Inspector's turn to frown. "What on earth is keeping him out? I mean, besides a lockable door, this house is hardly a model of security."

Amali treated Javert to a withering glance. "I assure you, there is more to this house's fortifications than a simple plank of wood on hinges. No, Melalo shouldn't have been able to get in. The fact that he did is concerning at best. I need to go check some things - do me a favor and don't wander off, now matter how exciting and potentially fatal an idea you come up with."

Javert snorted. It was hardly his fault that everyone seemed to be out to get him. It came with the territory - one couldn't be a pillar of justice without also being moderately unpopular - but usually his detractors weren't immortal.

Watching the lithe form of the angel disappear through the door, Javert reached for _La Chartreuse _gingerly. What were the odds that if he started reading someone would interrupt him again? High, he decided, but he'd give it a shot anyway.

No sooner had he started a new paragraph than a knock came at the door. Javert's expression turned so acidic he could have melted the door then and there, and he very purposefully ignored his caller. Amali was busy, Valjean would take the hint and leave, and there was no one else he cared to speak with just then.

In spite of his absence of attentions, the door swung open. Only when there came from that direction a very polite cough did Javert look up, eyebrows contracting in surprise. It was Amali, already back.

"Weren't you going to check on something?" Javert asked, annoyance written in bold across his features.

"I changed my mind," Amali replied. Something about her voice sounded forced.

"But," said the Inspector, sitting up, "isn't keeping Melalo out a bit, you know, important?"

The angel started. "Well, er, yes of course. But he won't hurt you while I'm here, will he?"

"He just tried to," Javert reminded her. Something was definitely off, but Javert couldn't quite place the problem. "Are you feeling alright?"

Amali nodded vigorously. "Sure. I'm fine. But, uh, I wanted to talk to you about something. Would you come here a minute?"

Now the Inspector was even more confused. "Aren't you the one who keeps saying I shouldn't get up yet?"

"Stretching your legs a little couldn't hurt. Come on - you can trust me, right?"

Javert's mental response said that he didn't trust anybody, but for once he overrode his internal warning system and stood shakily. As he walked to the door, a feeling of foreboding fell over the Inspector. Amali was nervous, and that made _him_ nervous, too.


	8. In Which There is a Doppelgänger

Pfft, this chapter took _forever_. Hopefully you won't all kill me, though, since it's also quite a bit longer. c:

Parts of this I really liked, and parts of it, dialogue especially, don't feel like they work. If you notice phrasing that just seems really awkward, let me know, please, and thank you.

* * *

In Which There is a Doppelgänger

The hallway was dim, shadows arching down the plaster walls like prison bars. Truth be told, Javert felt unaccountably discomfited. He hadn't actually seen anything of Number 55 Rue Plumet outside of the guest room and the garden, and something about standing in the corridor without Valjean felt illicit, like he was prying simply by being there.

Amali wasn't helping matters. Now more than ever, Javert got the sense that something was wrong, but he still couldn't place the issue. The angel looked anxious and almost as guilty as Javert felt.

"What's wrong, girl?" the police Inspector asked her sharply. "You really aren't acting like yourself."

"It's just that -" she bit her lip, staring down at her slippered feet. "I don't know where to begin."

The Inspector forced himself not to roll his eyes. "Listen - I'm really not in the mood for the angelic equivalent of angst - kindly either tell me what's going on or go figure out why Valjean's taking so long with lunch."

"Well," Amali sighed, "I suppose it began like this: I've been following people around since I was thought into being. It's fun the first couple of thousand years, but it starts to drag after a while - you get lonely. Then once the Archangels realize what you're best at handling, you get assigned to the same sort of people, so there's no variety to speak of, and -"

This time, the eye roll went unsuppressed. "Cut to the chase."

"As you wish it." Amali's eyes glinted with something momentarily akin to malice. "I think, to put it quite simply, that I am in love with you."

Surely Javert had misunderstood her.

"I... beg your pardon?"

"You heard me." A small smile was pulling at her lips, a smile that Javert did not care for at all. Unconsciously, he took a step backwards, finding the closed door rather closer to his back than he'd expected.

"Is there a problem?" the angel asked smoothly, sliding forward in measure equal to Javert's half step back.

"W-well," the Inspector sputtered, "it's just that I hardly feel the same way. I mean, surely you know that I've never really cared for women; this is hardly appro-"

Amali stretched upwards and lazily lay a finger over the Inspector's parted lips. It carried an immense amount of weight for so slim a hand, and Javert was struck dumb. Overwhelming was the desire to move, to knock her hand aside and shake some sense into the girl, and yet, in attempting to do so, he found that his limbs suddenly had no inclination to follow his instructions. His arms wouldn't lift, and his feet remained stoically in place. Even opening his mouth to speak seemed a Herculean effort.

"What... is... this?" Javert managed to whisper.

The angel smiled and leaned closer to caress the Inspector's sharp jaw. This, as it turned out, was a mistake. It was such a mistake that it could have only been a pair of snake eyes rolled by that mischievous denizen of mystery, Chance. For as she leaned forward, she revealed a sight in the stairwell so alarming that immobilization became a blessing; had he not been frozen thusly, he'd have jumped from his skin in shock, which would rather have ruined the otherwise poker-faced game.

Silently ascending the stairs was an angel. She was tall and beautiful and silver-haired, and she was in every way the double of the woman who'd cornered him. Most people are surprised to learn that they have a Guardian Angel; Javert was astonished to find himself looking at two.

* * *

He stared. He stared some more. His gaze was so fixed on a point behind the first angel that anyone would have been suspicious, unless they were slightly obtuse and felt that their quarry's bout of difficulty in moving likely as not extended to his eyes. Actually, Javert continued to blink freely, though this fact made no impression on the angel.

The Inspector had decided, for the sake of his sanity, that in the future it was probably best to stop trying to understand the world he'd woken in, because every time he tried, something like this happened.

"This" included several factors that made no sense singularly, and even less sense together. His Guardian Angel, hitherto a very sarcastic, albeit sincere, woman had suddenly undergone a transformation of personality and morphed into someone who apparently derived a sense of pleasure from making uncomfortable declarations of affection. Meanwhile, a second Amali was stalking her way towards the first, bearing a positively livid expression. She had made brief eye contact with him, warning him to continued silence, though Javert would have found it hard to betray her presence even had he wanted to.

These facts processed in under five seconds. Oblivious to her surroundings, the first girl continued to speak.

"Haven't you been wondering, Javert? Wondering what you're doing here?"

Mentally creasing his brow in consternation, Javert's keen vision picked out the first and only physical difference between the pair of angels: the arm of the first Amali, far too close to his person for comfort, was unmarked. The skin of the second, however, was still marred where she had been struck by Melalo.

_What...?_ he asked himself, trying and failing to puzzle out what this might mean.

"I'll tell you," the first girl whispered in his ear. The sound was mildly annoying, but Javert ignored it, determined to figure _something_ out so he could feel less ignorant.

"You're here because..."

The second Amali's eyes widened.

"...you..."

The girl raised her hand in mid-air and twisted her fingers, as if she were pulling a rope to her.

"...are..."

The air caught fire. The hair on Javert's arms stood on end as a behemoth wave of electricity poured over him. Empty space was rent apart by heat that stole the breath, and mercurial sparks showered against the plaster walls.

The first angel collapsed to the floor, shrieking a single high note that pierced the ear with its shrillness, except that she was an angel no longer. The form seemed to twist around her, shimmering like a mirage. It bent inwards upon itself, and then snapped, the strands of the black glamour fading back into the astral from which they'd been called.

Lying half-dead on the ground was a green bird, its olivine feathers turned ashen by the Guardian's assault. Amali stared at Javert over Melalo's body, fury fading from her expression even as it was overtaken by a look of horror.

"I thought I told you to stay in the bedroom," she said quietly.

The Inspector gaped at her. "You're worried about _that_?!" he exclaimed.

"Yes. I am." Her voice came as a hiss, a dangerous calm as cool as ice. Javert was familiar with that tone; he used it himself quite frequently. He also found he didn't really care for its being directed at him.

Amali took a step forward, nudging a smoking tail feather out of the way. "If you would have listened to me, Melalo couldn't have done a damn thing. But you listened to him. You, of your own free will, left the one place in this Infernal City that you're actually safe. Haven't you figured out yet that my magic does _nothing_ if my charge chooses to circumvent it?"

"No, I hadn't figured that out, actually," Javert replied with equal frostiness. "I have no idea what is going on, and you keep acting like I should 'know better' - I'm not a child, and I'm certainly not omniscient, either. Why can't you just give me a straight answer for a change?"

The wind seemed to fall from Amali's sails. It occurred to Javert that she was probably just worried about his safety (Again. He was going to have to start keeping tallies.), but frankly, he was in too ill a temper to care much.

"Why don't you help me drag this down to the basement?" She gestured vaguely at Melalo's unconscious form. "We can talk on the way."

Javert eyed the bird warily, but its eyes were glazed and unfocused; it was barely breathing. He hefted the dead weight as one might a sack of potatoes, and though his knees buckled slightly, he refused to show weakness to the angel and insisted that he alone bear the demon's bulk.

"After all," he said darkly, "I'm the reason it's even here, aren't I?"

Amali didn't answer; she didn't have to.

"Are you going to tell me why this keeps happening to me?"

"No."

The Inspector gave her a sharp sideways glance as he maneuvered the steep staircase. "Is that because you can't? Or because you won't?"

"Won't."

"I see." Javert paused mid-stride. "And there isn't any way I could persuade you otherwise?"

Amali shrugged. "If you will it, you can cause me no end of pain. But I still won't tell you. Some information is better discovered oneself rather than simply told."

"And this is one of those things?"

"No. This is one of those things where simply being told would kill you."

"I see." He didn't, but that was a moot point. The pair lapsed into an uncomfortable silence; they passed the first floor and followed the stairs down to the cellar. It was dark, but the angel waved her hand and a candle kindled flame. The room was clean, but empty. Four stone-cut walls ringed a floor planked with wood. It couldn't have been more devoid of furniture if it tried.

Quizzically, the Inspector turned to Amali. "Weren't you sleeping down here?"

"No. I'm staying here - there's a difference. Generally speaking, I don't need to sleep."

The angel indicated that Javert ought to toss the demon's body in the corner; this he did, and Amali drew a circle around the unconscious bird with a piece of charcoal she pulled from a little purse at her waist. This purse held quite a bit more interesting paraphernalia than one would expect from the dimensions of its outside, but most of its contents are not germane to this story.

In any event, the Inspector watched curiously as the girl scribbled sigils and calculations on the floor and walls. It seemed that a hazy sort of dome lazily coalesced over the circle's borders, such that Melalo appeared to be lying underneath a sort of shimmery bubble.

When Amali looked up, it was with a glazed sort of look across her eyes.

"You can go, Javert. Thank you."

"Are you sure you don't want me to stay? What if something happens?"

The angel gave him a tight smile. "No, really, it's fine. The spell will keep the demon contained. Anyway, you ought to look in on Valjean - in all the excitement earlier, I forgot to mention that he ran into some trouble as well. He ought to be resting in the living room."

For the second time that afternoon, Javert's instincts protested leaving. For the second time that afternoon, he decided to ignore them.

"If you insist."

An instant after Javert disappeared straight-backed up the stairs, Amali gave in to the summons that had been tugging at her essence for the last several minutes. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and her body crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut. She was still smiling.

* * *

Javert found the living room without difficulty; though as it happened, Number 55 was hardly an elaborate establishment. The first floor was comprised of two rooms: one was a small servant's room, though it had the air of not having been used in some time. The rest of the space was given over to a room containing a large fireplace, a sofa, and a wooden dining table and chairs set. There Valjean sat, wrapped in a blanket and looking rather miserable, though he brightened when the Inspector made his suddenly hesitant entrance.

"Javert," Valjean nodded in greeting.

"Monsieur Valjean," Javert returned, taking the chair across the small table.

"'Monsieur', now, is it?" Valjean smiled. "Since when do you speak to me with such politeness?"

Javert muttered something unintelligible in response, which only caused Valjean's smile to broaden.

The Inspector, who truly hated to feel the fool, found this unacceptable. Thus, it became his prerogative to take control of the conversation before Valjean chose to more deeply explore this unwanted insight.

"Amali said you had had some difficulties." It was a statement, not a question. A question might have suggested that the Inspector was worried, which he certainly was not.

Valjean's face darkened. "You could say that. One minute I was looking for a pat of butter, and the next thing I know, I'm on the floor and Amali is trying to wake me up. As near as either of us could tell, Melalo found some dark magic to bypass the angel's wards and incapacitated me before going after you."

Javert frowned. "That doesn't add up - wouldn't Melalo have killed you instead?"

Valjean shook his head. "The goal of a demon is to get people sent to Hell - since I've not sinned, I'd go to Heaven. That would be counterproductive."

"Well, I wouldn't say you've _never_ sinned..." Javert murmured quietly. Valjean's smile returned, though very, very gently.

"All that was a long time ago, Javert. I've done my penance since then, helping the less fortunate to the best of my ability, and I pray that to be worthy enough in the Lord's eyes."

"A better question, then," Javert continued as if he hadn't heard, "is why demons keep trying to kill _me_. I haven't done anything wrong either. Can you believe it - Amali knows the answer, but refused to tell me."

"Perhaps that's for the best," Valjean replied cautiously.

"What, are you in on this too? I - oh, never mind," Javert exclaimed in exasperation. "I'm absolutely powerless to do anything about all of these bizarre occurrences. I'm not an angel (even saying it sounds absurd), I don't have any magical powers, and I can't remember enough of the stories to even try and guess at what to expect. You know, the worst part of it is this feeling of - I don't even know what to call it - like..."

"Like...?" Valjean prompted after a moment.

"Like... shame? Embarrassment? The two of you have defended me from these creatures at great personal risk to yourselves, and I can't even help, let alone return the favor. It's _maddening_."

When Valjean spoke, the words came with a teaspoon-pouring, carefully measured slowness. "You know, Inspector, there are other ways to look at this."

"Is that so?" Javert asked stiffly. "Kindly elaborate."

"I told you before that I trust you. If there's a favor you ought to even consider repaying, it might be that one."

"I don't trust people. Ever."

Valjean smiled wanly. "I know. But even if all you did was try, try to believe that we want to help, that _I_ want to help, I think you would begin to feel better."

Javert, to his dismay, was the first to lower his eyes. "Why do you keep calling me 'Inspector'? I hardly am, anymore, am I? Once upon a time, I'd never have stood for even being in the same room with you, let alone allow myself to sit and talk. Clearly, I've lost that person."

"No," Valjean said, his smile once more full of warmth. "You will always be Monsieur l'Inspector, wanting to know the answer to every question mankind has to offer. But I think perhaps you are letting free some of the bonds that Monsieur has placed upon yourself. Change is a slow thing sometimes, but ubiquitous nevertheless."

Valjean reached across the table and clasped Javert's hand in his own. Javert looked up in surprise.

"Jean, I -"

But whatever he had been about to say was lost, for at that moment, a scream reverberated through the very fabric of both mortal and immortal realms. Imagine, for an instant, that there was a scream so past the quantifiable range of decibels that it ceased to be a sound and could only be felt, a shuddering vibration that spoke of fear and despair and loss, the sound, almost, of a world collapsing on itself. And then imagine that that same scream cried only one word, and that word was your name.

Javert was on his feet before he knew what had happened, his heart pounding and chair spilled across the ground.

"Javert? Are you alright? Javert?" Valjean's voice was slow to register.

"Didn't you hear that?" Javert's eyes were wild and he spun in place, searching for some explanation of what he'd heard.

"Hear what?"

There was an almost audible click as the Inspector processed what must have happened.

"Amali."

Valjean asked no more questions, standing and running after Javert, who was already on his way to the basement.

* * *

Javert wasn't sure what he'd expected. Fire and brimstone, perhaps, and hordes of demonic entities with dastardly intent. He'd definitely expected carnage of a most gruesome sort, and likely as not some injury to his own life and limb. So it is perfectly understandable that he be brought up short when the scene that met his eyes bore absolutely no resemblance to his own fevered imaginings.

What he saw was this. Amali's candle had gone out, but her magic circle cast a pale, supernatural glow over the floor. Shadows crawled up the walls like spider limbs, but there was no movement to be had - none at all. Melalo still lay asleep, and Amali -

Amali lay in the center of the cellar, a small smile stretched across her face. She could have been sleeping, except for the fact that no breath seemed to emanate from her chest.

"Angel...?" Javert took a few small steps foreword, closely followed by Valjean, until both men at the same time realized the same thing.

The skin of the girl's back shone perfectly smooth and cold in the magic orb's light, without so much as a singular feather to grace it. Her wings were gone.


	9. In Which Ladies Present a Number of

Driving something like fourteen hours over three days to visit colleges presented me with ample time to write. As such, I am very happy to present you with what is easily my longest chapter of this story, and quite possibly ever. I had a lot of fun writing this one, and hope you enjoy it as much as I do. As an FYI, we briefly have some rude language somewhere in the latter third of the chapter, though if you read fanfiction frequently, I should think you'd be used to it.

* * *

In Which Ladies Present a Number of Problems

Javert paced the bedroom floor with a frenetic energy, akin to the swing of a pendulum knocked helter-shelter off course. Dewy sweat glistened along his dark hairline, and a worried Valjean stood by watching anxiously, knowing that the Inspector was not yet fully well, and also acknowledging it would be unwise to suggest that the man take a seat.

"Damn it all!" Javert growled. "Why doesn't she wake up?"

Lying atop the covers of the guest bed, Amali's limp form looked small and almost child-like without her enormous wings. The buoyant smile on her sleeping lips seemed one as in mockery, as if she, in her own inner world, knew of the men's distress and laughed at it.

"You're sure you don't have even the slightest idea what might have happened?" Valjean asked timorously.

"Not any more idea than I did fifteen minutes ago when you asked me the same thing," came the scathing reply. "I told you - she didn't say anything alarming. I had a strange sort of premonition, but that was _it_!"

Valjean retreated into the corner, trying not to feel hurt. Javert seemed to pick up on some of his upset, because a moment later, he sighed heavily.

"I ought not to have shouted. That was boorish of me. You're just worried about the girl."

"Something terrible must have happened, but I truly cannot fathom what," Valjean murmured, his lips barely seeming to move. "I was just hoping that she might have said something - anything - but..."

"I understand that it is difficult for one in your position not to be emotionally invested in her well-being. I find myself to be, if only because of services rendered, and I'm hardly wooing her."

"Well, nor am I, of course," Valjean sighed. "But I find she reminds me ever so much of my dear Cosette, and we were becoming good friends."

Several of Javert's suspicions were forced to rearrange themselves at this point, leading him to a startling conclusion.

"Valjean..." he began slowly, "you've not been involved romantically with a woman, have you?"

Valjean looked askance at the Inspector.

"No, I haven't. My little Lark was the only lady who ever had my affection. Why, exactly, does this subject crop up so persistently in our conversations?"

"You're an enigma to me," Javert replied, a trifle uncomfortably. "A kind, wealthy, and generous man without a female companion? Surely you had admirers?"

It was Valjean's turn to look uncomfortable. "I did, yes. But women never held much, ah, interest for me. I lived so much of my life without their companionship that if they ever gave me cause for desire, I've no memory of it now."

"And that's all it is? A lack of desire? Not desire tending in a different direction?"

Valjean's brow wrinkled. "What do you mean?"

"Well," coughed the Inspector, "I, ah, knew a gentleman who found he preferred the company of other men to women. So when you speak as you do, you cannot blame me for wondering... "

"Ah."

Javert had hear such an "ah" from Valjean on one previous occasion, half a lifetime ago, in a small town named Montreuil-sur-Mer. That was when Inspector Javert had informed Monsieur "Madeleine" that the convict Jean Valjean had been taken into custody, and Valjean had subsequently been forced to choose between revealing himself and letting an innocent man go to prison. The utter dearth of expression on Valjean's face now caused Javert a moment of déjà vu.

"Well." Valjean sat heavily in the room's single chair. "To be perfectly honest, I've not been romantically involved with _anyone_ before. That makes me a rather poor judge of who I'd care to associate with, don't you think?"

Inspector Javert didn't answer, checking on the sleeping angel so as to avoid the other man's gaze. They didn't talk much after that, one lost in thought and the other trying to avoid thinking of anything at all. The afternoon sun shifted and paled and the shadows lengthened as the sky turned to dusk.

Then there came a knock at the door.

* * *

"Who could that be at this hour?" Javert wondered aloud.

"I don't know," came the murmured reply. "It's hardly too late for visitors, but no one ever troubles to see me here. Besides, I thought I'd locked the gate..."

Both men stared at the door, frowning in consternation.

"I suppose I'd best go see who it is," Valjean said finally. "If they've not left yet."

Javert nodded. Under different circumstances, he would have insisted on going himself, but the Inspector found he'd been nearly killed a few times too many for his liking. Besides, even if their evening visitor were harmless, Javert couldn't quite bring himself to admit publicly that he was staying with a convicted criminal, especially given the awkward subject of their most recent conversation.

He stood in silence as Valjean exited the room, working his way down the stairs to the front of the house.

The sound of the front door opening resonated up the stairwell. There was muffled laughter, and then it seemed Valjean was speaking most amiably with his unexpected guest.

"She's just up the stairs." Valjean's voice was louder, and in a burst of unease, Javert realized the other man was bringing the visitor up to the sick room. The Inspector straightened perceptibly, folded his hands stolidly behind his back, and attempted to look grim.

Valjean entered first, gesturing behind him.

"This is his Grace the Archangel Raphael. Apparently, he knows what the problem with Amali is and hopes to help."

An unnaturally tall man ducked under the door frame and stepped into the bedroom. His face seemed to shimmer, reflecting the personages of a thousand people from a thousand countries. So it was with Archangels: their faces were glamoured with all the shades of those who had ever called upon the Angel for aid.

All angels have wings, but the Archangels, who have been known to speak directly with mortals, posses the ability to conceal theirs at will; today, Raphael's wings were hidden in the Astral, but nevertheless, his aura radiated peace and unconditional love so powerfully that there was no doubting the Archangel's identity.

"Good evening, Inspector," Raphael smiled, his voice soft but penetrating in the growing gloom of the room. "I understand you gentlemen have been most concerned about our wayward protégée. I'm touched, truly."

"What's wrong with her?" Javert asked, his voice more gruff than was appropriate given whom he was speaking to.

Raphael sighed deeply. "That is the question, isn't it? I suppose it is best if I start from the beginning, yes? Michael called the seven of us together in what he referred to as an 'emergency disciplinary meeting'. Usually what the bureaucrats call an 'emergency' is something that could stand to be dealt with a good deal later, but when Michael says 'fly', you only get to ask 'how high'."

Valjean chuckled appreciatively.

"How very like Michael."

Javert, on the other hand, felt he had an idea where their conversation was leading, and found it's destination rather off-putting.

"Exactly what, your Grace, was the purpose of your meeting?"

When Raphael raised his eyes to the Inspector's, the blissful light so characteristic of angels seemed to have been dampened.

"I'm afraid that the singular point on the agenda was the appropriate punishment of your Guardian, Javert."

Jean Valjean sobered immediately. "What? But she's been doing as well as you could expect, given the circumstances!"

"I know," Raphael agreed sadly. "But Michael disagreed. She was in the middle of enacting a very powerful spell when the Archangel began his summons, so he was forced to wait for her to finish before he could drag her to the Hall of Records. Naturally, that did nothing to improve his temper."

"She's right here, though!" Javert argued. "Did something go wrong with Michael's summons? Is that why she's stuck like this?"

"He didn't need her body," Raphael replied dismissively. "Angels rarely travel that way at all. Besides, the Hall of Records is in the Astral plane; it's very difficult to bring flesh and bone there. Michael only called her spirit."

"Oh is _that_ it?" Valjean interrupted. "Her spirit is elsewhere, so her body does not wake?"

"That's the idea." The Archangel's voice took on a grim cast. "But wait, and listen to the rest of my account."

"After Amali had arrived, Michael made all sorts of accusations, some of them very serious. He claimed, among other things, that the girl is too close emotionally to you, her charge, and that her feelings are now impacting her judgement. As evidence, he cited the numerous recent incidents involving demonic attacks. Now, the situation being delicate as it is, I'm sure you understand why so many amateur mistakes are concerning, especially given that Amali is a seasoned professional. All of us agreed that the situation required correcting."

"Now wait just a minute," Valjean said, cutting in. "But you only just said that she's done quite well! You can't say that and then say you think there's a problem with her!"

Javert did not care to speak to authority in such an impudent manner, but privately he had to agree. Raphael raised his hands for quiet.

"I said that we all felt the situation had to change, but not necessarily that Amali had to. Several of us were all for cracking down on the demons; they've become a real nuisance of late, both here and elsewhere. But, as I _did_ say, Michael disagreed. He said that putting the focus on the demons made _us_, the Archangels, look bad, as it implies that we haven't been forceful enough in our control of the wretched creatures."

"That is a perfectly ridiculous excuse," Javert said scornfully. "He's using Amali as a scapegoat, nothing more."

"That, though, is the thing," Raphael said thoughtfully. "Is is nothing other than Michael trying not to tarnish his own shining reputation?"

"What else could it be?" Valjean asked, frowning.

"You have yet to hear the most discomfiting aspect of this story. Listen closely. After all was said and done, Michael had two among the Archangels who supported his decision to bring Judgement upon the girl - that he had supporters at all is disturbing alone - but the other four of us insisted most passionately upon a different modus operandi. Nevertheless, Michael overruled our votes and dictated his prescribed means of 'reprimanding' the girl."

"A most grievous error, when the words of the many are drowned by the voices of the few," Valjean murmured to himself. Javert shot him a sharp glance.

"Indeed," Raphael nodded. "But perhaps you are unfamiliar with the politics of angels, for there is yet another issue at hand that I find deeply troubling. In times past, never have the Archangels acted upon a decision without unanimous consent; now that tradition of harmony is broken, and I tremble at what that may mean - perhaps nothing, and perhaps everything."

"These riddles are indeed problematic, your Grace," said Javert, a trifle impatiently, "but perhaps you would care to tell us why my alleged Guardian angel is lying comatose instead of giving us her assuredly insightful input on matters of angelic politic."

Raphael overlooked Javert's tone with a smile. "Monsieur l'Inspector, wanting answers as per his usual. An answer, then - I thought it best that the two of you know what happened first, as she will not be eager to discuss it when she wakes."

"Why? What did Michael do to her?"

"He incarcerated her," Raphael said, shrugging. "Locked her spirit in an inescapable Astral prison."

"And you can let her out?"

"Every door can be opened; it is merely a question of when and how." The Archangel drew from within his robes a long, silver key. "All things are composed of two elements: matter and spirit. This is as much true of the inanimate as it is of the living. Freeing the girl is but a matter of a very simple sympathetic magic - in giving her flesh the right key, her spirit in turn receives one that will open unto her a means of flight. Before the procedure is begun, however, I have one issue yet to disclose. To simply lock the girl away was not enough for Michael's taste. I fear he may have even anticipated my dissension in coming to the two of you tonight. Thus he, against the better judgement of much of our council, pressed an additional means of retribution upon her."

"Which is?" Javert prompted.

"I hesitate even to speak of it, and do so only because I know that she will not. Such a thing has not been done in a thousand years." Raphael met Javert's eyes directly then, and the sorrow outlined there was as crushing as his usual charisma of joy was uplifting. "I regret to inform you, Monsieur Javert, that when Amali wakes you will have a friend, but not a Guardian Angel."

* * *

Raphael's words hung in the air with an iron-grey heaviness that seemed to extinguish the room's warmth. Javert's mouth set itself in a determined line.

"I don't believe, your Grace, that I've ever called someone a friend before in my life. Now that I do, I'm hardly going to let her essence languish in some Archangel's prison simply because she's found herself unexpectedly unemployed. Set her free."

"I said before that opening doors is a matter of when and _how_. A lock needs a key; we have that here. A key needs someone to turn it; as her erstwhile charge, that task has to fall to you. It seems only right that an officer of the Law be the one to break her restraints."

The Archangel tossed the silver key, and deftly, Javert closed his fingers around the precious object. Kneeling at the side of the bed, the Inspector stared into the frozen face of the girl and he was overcome with the most curious sensation of having once stood at just such a crossroads himself. Carefully, he closed Amali's fingers around the filigree handle of the key.

"Seek and Ye shall find," he murmured. It seemed an appropriate quote.

* * *

_It was a place of forgetting._

_The oubliette was carved of dark stone. The only light shone dimly through the bars of the heavy grate some twenty feet above. How could something be made of spirit, of energy, and still be so dark? It was cold, too. Cold and damp. _

_In the back of the cell, a girl in a white tattered dress sat with her arms wrapped around her knees. Her eyes were red and puffy, and the pallor of her skin seemed less one of silvery radiance than of an ill sallowness. Viscous red liquid ran slowly down her back, where it mingled with blood the color of Mercury. As the hours wore on, it seemed that the silver blood poured forth with less and less frequency. She rocked slowly back and forth in place, absently marveling that she seemed to be purging away the last traces of her immortality. Idly, she wiped a small patch of silver from the floor and watched as before her eyes, it waned as the moon and oxidized to a sanguine scarlet._

_Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a shimmer of light; strange, since she was sure she'd checked the cell quite thoroughly when she'd first been pushed down. Everything therein consumed light, rather than emit it. Scrabbling over the rough stone, the girl pulled from a chink in the wall a silver rod that glowed with its own blue light. Her fingers tightened around it. If she was holding what she suspected... _

_Carved into the metal were the words _Seek and Ye shall find_. The girl straightened slowly, staring at the grate much too high above her. Fortunately, the walls were deeply pitted. Gripping the key between her teeth, Amali began the ascent out of darkness._

* * *

There was no flash, no fulmination of light. Rather, it seemed that the lingering rays of sunlight hovering in midair drew closer to the bed. Then this too faded, and for a long instant the only sign anything had changed was the gradual sliding of the fixed smile from Amali's face. Javert, of prudence, stepped back respectfully.

All at once, Amali's eyes fluttered open. She stared briefly at the ceiling and then sat up, swinging her legs over the edge of the mattress. She casually examined her bare arms and feet, and experimentally rubbed her shoulder blades from which until which very recently she had been possessed of wings. The girl looked up, staring at the room's three other occupants without seeing them.

"Fuck."

This she said, loudly, clearly, and without any inflection in her voice whatsoever. She stood and, as one in a trance, walked stiffly from the room. Raphael, Valjean, and Javert turned to watch as the door swung shut behind her.

"You ought to go after her," Raphael told Javert gravely.

"I didn't get the impression that she cared to be followed," Javert replied.

"Regardless, you must follow. 'Upset' is an utterly inadequate word to describe how she feels at the moment. Make her talk to you. Otherwise, she might do something foolish."

Of everything the Archangel said, it was this last that stuck most clearly in Javert's mind.

"Something... foolish..." he repeated. Why did that seem to strike such a chord? "Where could she have gone?"

It was Valjean who spoke up. "The roof, if I know Amali. She's always had a mingled affinity for and horror of high places. In Cosette's room, there's a small trapdoor. It goes up to the top of the house."

Peering past the door, Javert stared cautiously down the corridor. The hall was empty, but the first door on the right was ajar. Cosette's room.

After the Inspector slipped cat-like into the hall, Valjean turned to Raphael.

"Will she be alright?"

"She'll have to be. For both their sakes."

* * *

Surely enough, when Javert entered the vacant bedroom, amidst the lady's things was a slender wooden ladder extending from an opening in the ceiling. Javert eyed it skeptically. It barely looked fit to hold anyone heavier than a child. Nevertheless, when he put his foot on the bottom rung, the wood complained but held fast. He scrambled upwards, urged by a growing sense of necessity. The trapdoor was a tight squeeze and it was dark; several times, the Inspector struck his shoulder against a protruding nail or beam. It wasn't until he hit his head against the panel to the outside that he realized he'd climbed to the top of the ladder.

If Amali had locked the exit, Javert would have seen his climb come to an abrupt stop. As it was, the girl plainly had not thought of that and had left the way unobstructed. A gentle push (not with his head), and the panel flipped open to reveal the evening sky.

Pulling himself onto the roof, Javert found it pitched down to the front of the house, but not so steeply as to be unmanageable. Above the front door the roof flattened, and it was there that Amali was standing, her toes even with the edge of the roofing tiles. In the darkling night, the garden below appeared as a black river. The Inspector shook his head and the illusion faded.

He stepped foreword, making sure that his boots clicked against the tile; it was only fair to give the girl some warning of his presence.

"You ought to be careful so close to the edge," he remarked, carefully picking a path down the slope. Amali did not start; she was well aware of Javert's presence. When he was standing beside her, she spoke, her eyes cast down at the cobblestone path two-and-a-half stories below.

"It's so simple a solution, isn't it? I never understood before how people could do something so terrible to themselves before, but now I find myself wondering - why not?"

"Suicide is a sin, isn't it?" Javert asked mildly.

Amali turned to him sharply. "Yes, it is, actually. Though a while back the Powers That Be decided that direct consignment to Hell was too harsh for someone who'd done nothing else wrong. Now they get sent to Purgatory first, and they get some length of time to learn whatever lesson they tried to avoid through death. If they succeed, they can go to Heaven. And if they don't..."

"So there's no point to jumping," Javert said, trying to sound reasonable when in fact his mouth was dry like sand. "You'd just have to deal with... _this_ anyway."

"Except I'm not human, Javert," Amali said sadly. "I never have been. I look human, I sound human, and now I'm mortal like one, but I'm not. I don't have free will, heck, I don't even have a soul, properly speaking. You can't fathom what it is like, to be unchanging for your entire existence and then suddenly to be able to feel every atom of your person aging, decaying, breaking into its component parts, and dying. I'm dying already; what's even the point of hanging on?"

She contemplated the air between her and the ground quietly. The breeze through the treetops sounded like rushing water.

Javert stared down for a minute too. Valjean was the one who was tactful, who always seemed to know what to say. Why didn't they send _him_ to talk to the girl?

"The point, Amali," he said finally, trying to pick his words carefully, "the point... The point is that life is more than just a job, isn't it? I never used to think so - the Law was my body, mind, and soul. But now... I don't know if I could go back to that, or if I want to - I don't know anything at this point. But look at it this way - we'll figure out what's gone wrong. A lot of the Archangels support you, you know. We could get your immortality back, even, or -"

"Immortality isn't exactly a gift handed out like candy to children, Javert," came the reply, distant and toneless. "When he took that - it reverberated across entire _worlds_. Something like that - it matters. To take it is to alter a creature's fundamental nature. There are no words in any tongue of spirit, beast, or man to describe such pain. Like the life is ripped atom by atom from your flesh."

Javert didn't know which was worse - what she was saying or the way she said it, so disattached.

"Amali," Javert said as gently as he could manage, "I still need your help. I don't mind that you don't have your power - you're the only one of the three of us with extensive experience with all this metaphysical mumbo-jumbo. Raphael can't stay to help us - he's already in trouble for coming here, I'm sure. So please - just come back inside. If you -" he stumbled over the word "jump" "- I'll never forgive myself for not stopping you. You know I'm not really practiced in forgiving people, myself least of all."

Amali looked at him then, her eyes shining with tears.

"I didn't even Fall, did I? I'm just... broken. Oh God..." She buried her face in Javert's shoulder. "Fine. To Hell with it all. I'll figure something out. I..."

Above them, thunder rumbled quietly, and the breeze sweeping the top of Paris quickened. A storm was on the way.

"Let's go back in," Javert suggested, taking Amali by the elbow and guiding her back up the roof.

"Yeah," she muttered quietly. "Yeah. Actually, if you want to be proactive about this, I have an errand to run. I know a group of young gentlemen who, I'm sure, could be persuaded to join your cause. They're rather passionate about such things, and they like me."

"It sounds like you have the beginning of a plan."

"Yes," Amali said, a watery smile appearing on her face. "I think I do."


	10. In Which the Storm Breaks

I would like to take a moment to thank my wonderful reviewers - it's really encouraging (and slightly intimidating) to know that people are actually reading this! :D I had something totally different planned for chapter ten, but then this happened. Oh well. Chapter ten...

* * *

In Which the Storm Breaks

Amali ran her errand, though she refused to tell either Valjean or Javert exactly with whom she'd be speaking.

"Both of you would question my methods, and I don't know that I can handle any more of that today," she had informed them tartly. The men were willing to give her the benefit of the doubt, especially since it got her off the rooftop.

The Archangel, meanwhile, had left almost as soon as the Inspector and the girl had come down the ladder, pausing only to hold her hand briefly in reassurance.

"You have my support. We shall see how many others will still stand with us after they hear of your escape," Raphael said gravely. Truth be told, it wasn't the most comforting speech he'd ever made.

Thus the front door closed both on the Archangel and on Amali, and in the lingering silence thereafter, the sudden emptiness of the house was impossible to ignore.

"Do you think she'll be alright out there?" Valjean asked, staring at the door. "I mean, she's human now, isn't she, and there's all manner of crooks and swindlers on the streets at night."

Likewise staring at the entryway, Javert did not answer for a long moment. Then he replied quietly "She said she was mortal, but not human. In all honesty, I'd be more concerned about her doing something to her_self_."

When Valjean looked sharply at him, Javert explained, briefly, what had been said on the rooftop.

"But I have to ask," the Inspector concluded, "why you sent me up there? Surely at this point I'm nothing but an unpleasant reminder of what helping me cost her."

Valjean shook his head slowly, wondering how much information he could safely provide.

"I think," he said finally, "that you are the only one who could have talked her off that roof. I don't think... I don't think she would have listened to me."

Javert opened his mouth to ask something, but thought better of it and walked to the couch instead, sinking heavily on to the old pillows. After a moment, Valjean joined him, and they stared at the flickering in the fireplace instead of at the door. Eventually, Valjean stood again and fixed two mugs of tea. Javert watched, absorbing nothing, wondering what night-rule was at large in Paris that evening. Overhead, the storm broke violently, and heavy torrents of rain fell from the heavens.

_Miserable_, Javert thought. _That is the only way to describe it._

The tea was hot. It gave some warmth to the cheerless room. Eventually, Valjean nodded off, his head lolling gently against Javert's shoulder. For once, the Inspector didn't mind - he felt he could use the silent company. Somewhere across Paris, a bell tolled the hour. It was late, and still Amali had not returned. Javert sensed his silent vigil fading into slumber; he forced himself awake. Too soon, the oppressive mantle of weariness fell over him again. How long had it been since he'd slept? Only a day? It felt like a year's time had passed since that morning.

The melancholy rain beat out a steady tattoo across the city, running down drain spouts, splashing on roof tiles, sweeping through the sewers. Its rhythmic humming slowed the blinking of the eyes, steadied the heart, calmed and soothed all in one. In the little house on Rue Plumet, Javert found it harder and harder to hold sleep at bay. It seemed he dreamed with his eyes open, even, the shadows dancing like skeletal figures on the walls and small clouds of steam twisting into the forms of women in white.

Javert blinked. The living room was just as it always was. He blinked again, more slowly. His chin nodded, and he closed his eyes for a third time, promising himself he would just rest a bit; staring at firelight for so long was surely bad for one's vision.

Javert dreamt, and this is what he saw. There was at first a rush of monochrome, of greys and blacks and whites, and this at last solidified into the image of a forbidding figure standing on a bridge. Before he could observe further, however, the picture spun and then he was gazing up at an enormous courthouse, one rather Neoclassical in structure, forth from which issued a steady outpouring of the Heavenly Host, dashing here and there, their arms piled with notes and records. This image too shattered into a thousand fragments, coalescing into a dark hall full of darker pits, all sealed with iron bars. One such pit at the dungeon's end seemed darker still than the others, and Javert felt compelled to see what unfortunate soul had been thusly locked away. The further down that grim hall he walked, however, the farther his destination seemed. And then there was a deafening clap of thunder, and Javert woke in a panic.

Valjean was looking at him with some concern, and the Inspector realized that he was quite flushed, his chest pounding much faster than its usual.

"A dream," Javert explained. "Nightmare. I'm sorry - did I wake you?"

Valjean shook his head. "The Lord's atmospheric symphony did that. Are you well?"

Javert nodded. "I think so. 'Twas just a very odd dream. Not enough sleep, I suppose. Is Amali back yet?"

No sooner had Valjean started to shake his head than the front door blew open and a dripping-wet Amali fell, face-first, to the floor.

"So much for the dramatic entrance," they heard her mutter. "Stupid lack of traction. Angels are supposed to be _graceful_." She pulled herself up and smiled wryly at the pair on the couch. "It's raining outside."

"We'd noticed," Valjean replied faintly.

"Mind if I join you?" She hobbled over to the couch, dripping the whole way, and dropped back to the floor in front of the fire. "I was beginning to think I'd never be dry again."

"Were you successful in your errand?" Valjean asked with a touch of trepidation.

"Mmm," came the mumbled reply. "I made it there without difficulty, though the boys required more persuasion than I'd anticipated. They'll be here, never fear, near one o'clock tomorrow afternoon. It started to rain whilst I was at their apartments, and it was in coming home that _this_-" she gestured to her dress "- happened. Complicating matters that much further was the fact that I found myself pursued by some unpleasant individuals. It wasn't difficult to give them the slip, but it _did_ require me to go out of my way. That's why I was late. My sincerest apologies."

"Apologies are hardly necessary," Javert assured her, waving his hand in an unusual show of geniality.

Next to him, Valjean frowned. Something had been nagging at him for the last few hours, and now seeing Amali brought the issue back to the fore.

"Might I ask you something?"

"Certainly."

"Earlier, you locked that demon, Melalo, down in my basement, right?

"Right."

"So... Not that I mind or anything, but we can't really just _leave_ him there, can we? I mean, what exactly does one do with an evil demon obsessed with destroying people painfully?"

Amali laughed once, coldly.

"You ask it a few questions," the girl answered. "And it had best hope to God that it can answer before you get tired of waiting."

* * *

There are few things eerier than entering a crypt-like basement, dark but for the supernatural shine of spell-light, only to find a pair of hideous eyes staring at you from the back corner; all three mortals felt the hairs on the nape of their neck prickle.

Melalo had, in a fury, done everything in his considerable power to escape; the stone floor contained with him beneath the magicked dome had been reduced to mere splinters, dirt tossed this way and that, but even below ground Melalo found himself thwarted, for the dome extended as a sphere, preventing all mischief-making. Even the demon's black magic, which had first granted him access to Number 55's interior, failed in the face of the offensive power of a Guardian. Now he sat disincorporated, a shapeless fume of black smoke, glaring with coal-red eyes at those who dared restrain him.

Amali was the last of the trio to enter. Melalo ignored her pointedly, choosing rather to focus his attentions on the men. Javert regarded the demon with a cool indifference, which Valjean silently applauded.

"Come back to try your luck, _mortals_?" he asked. By some shred of power, the monster's voice sounded from every corner of the room. "You shall find me a mite harder to bend to your will without an angel in your midst. At least," he amended, turning at last to drip derision on his captor, "without a _proper_ one."

Amali did not rise to the provocation, though Javert looked murderous.

"An angel's role I may not be playing," she said with measured calmness, "but I remain blessedly less-than-useless. Observe."

Her satchel was left on the basement floor where she had dropped it earlier; from within she drew the selfsame chunk of charcoal she had cast the circle with that afternoon. Scribbling a few lines on the ground, she looked on with satisfaction as the dome shrank about a foot in its radius. The black fog was forced to condense itself to fit within its new confines.

"How...?" Valjean began uncertainly.

"A very simple procedure," said a pleased Amali, "and in fact, we can thank Michael for it. I could already feel his draw on my essence when I first constructed the circle, and frankly, with him it's _always_ fire and brimstone. I built a few safeguards into my spell as a result, just in case something were to happen, as it tends to do. You don't have to have superhuman powers to effect change on the circle or its contents, you just have to be outside of it and very, very familiar with arcane languages and scripts."

Inspector Javert started to grin sardonically in Melalo's direction. "You could be a member of the police, girl. Brilliant strategizing."

"Well," Amali shrugged modestly, "it's mostly a thing born of practice. At any rate, we still have control over one situation."

"And what good, _pray_ tell, does that do you?" hissed an extremely irritated demon. "It's not like The Lord of Darkness is going to sell you information with me as ransom." He clucked at the very thought.

"True. But methinks there is something you haven't told us, Melalo," Amali replied shrewdly. "On whose orders did you pursue my charge?"

"Oh-ho, is _that_ what you're after?" Melalo clucked again, appreciatively. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not telling. You'll forgive me, but I don't find little girls especially intimidating."

"Loyalty to one's employer has never been a common trait among demons," Amali commented.

"Neither is giving information to one's quarry," Melalo pointed out, the smoke swirling in amusement. "Especially not anything truthful."

"He's right," Valjean whispered to the girl. "We can't trust a thing he says!"

Slowly, Amali nodded. "I'd had hope that he would prove more helpful, though in retrospect, I don't know why. I suppose we'll have to work a bit for the information, hmm?"

This time when she knelt, she closed her eyes to write. The characters she scratched out on the floor were tiny and winding, and it seemed to the observers that they were forming a pattern, though what it was, they couldn't tell.

Melalo shrieked in anger.

"You can't do that! Angels are forbidden to use such magics!"

Amali kept writing, her concentration never wavering. "I believe that _you_ were the one to suggest that I'm no proper angel. Make up your mind. Are you going to give me as straight answer?" When Melalo said nothing, she inclined her head to the other two, adding "This is going to feel really weird."

The sensation was one of the spirit turning into rubber, being stretched and pulled like taffy until one's consciousness was quite outside one's body. If they had looked around in that instant, all three would have found themselves standing next to their own person. Then the world around them seemed to dissolve, and they were instead standing before a Neoclassical courthouse, one which shimmered and bent like a mirage. Javert grimaced in recognition - it was the place from his dream.

"Why are we _here_, of all places?" Valjean asked, confused.

"Where _is_ here?" Javert amended.

"Welcome to the court of the Sacred Citadel," Amali replied grimly. "In the center is the Hall of Records, where the Archangels meet. The building also serves as a library, a prison, and guest suites for visitors and diplomats."

Dryly, Javert summed up what they were all thinking. "How very... accommodating."

"Isn't it, though? I must admit, however, that the fact that Melalo's thoughts took us here is not the best news I've heard all day."

"What does it mean?" Valjean asked, the alarm present on his features.

"It means," growled Javert, "that whoever set all these demons against me is here, in the angels' city. Am I right, Amali?"

"Unfortunately. Though we can't rule out the possibility that there are others involved as well - Melalo is only showing us the hiding place of the one individual ordering him around."

"Brilliant. Just brilliant." Javert cursed under his breath. "Is there any way to get more specific information out of this little spell? Because there are a _lot_ of people here to investigate."

"We should be able to do better than this, yes," Amali said. "Let me see what I can do..." She cocked her head; almost at once the ground shifted like water beneath their feet and in but a second, they were the only stationary objects in a maelstrom of motion.

When the vision settled, they were standing in a long hallway. The floor was tiled in white marble, and the arching ceiling was carved of the same. A long runner, colored vibrantly red, stretched the hall's length. Dozens of alcoves lined the walls.

"This isn't far from the Hall of Records," Amali said slowly, "so I don't understand why..."

"Someone must have been listening in on the Council's meetings!" Valjean exclaimed. "Perhaps they're still here!"

He started at the run down the hall, Amali and Javert no more than a length behind him.

Out of nowhere, as if they had crossed some invisible boundary line, everything went black, and the trio was struck by the sensation of just having encountered a brick wall head-on at a run.

Somewhere in the distance, Javert heard Amali shouted something, and the spell collapsed upon itself. A moment later, the Inspector blinked and found himself sitting in his own body in Valjean's basement. It seemed the other two were having a similar moment of unreality. Melalo cackled maniacally to himself.

"Be _silent_, you stupid bird," Amali spat.

"What just happened?" Valjean groaned, rubbing his forehead.

"Something blocked the spell," Amali explained. "The whole Citadel is lined with enchantments to repel malicious spell work, and the courthouse all the more so. The Hall of Records is the most heavily fortified chamber anywhere in the Astral. Whatever we ran into is designed to keep people from spying exactly the way we just tried."

"_So_ sorry I couldn't be more helpful," the demon-bird laughed, "but then, it is very rude to intrude on someone's thoughts like that."

"I thought I told you to be silent," Amali growled, sketching a jagged line in the air.

The space around the dome seemed to bend before completely enveloping the magicked circle. It was as though a pocket had opened and swallowed it whole.

"Where did he go?" Javert asked in astonishment. Amali waved him down.

"I stuck him in the Astral. He can make all the obnoxious threats he wants there and we won't have to listen to it."

"Thank Heaven for small favors," the Inspector quipped. "Can we get out of the basement now?"

"Sure. Valjean, I'll scrub the marks off your floor later."

* * *

A cup and a half of coffee later (Valjean was by this time out of tea) and everyone felt themselves steadied enough to discuss what they had learned.

Valjean took the initiative, saying "We know now that the individual targeting Javert is in or near the Hall of Records. We know that they must be a powerful entity to be giving demons like Melalo orders, and we know that we cannot attempt to find this entity through magical means. What options does that give us?"

"At this point it sounds like our only choice is to go to the Hall of Records ourselves," the Inspector told him, though Amali shook her head vehemently.

"Not on your life," she argued. "I don't want any of us anywhere near that place right now. Consider - any spell powerful enough to break into an angelic fortress of that caliber was cast by the demonic equivalent of an Archangel. None of us can combat that."

The trio stared into their coffee cups considering this grim prospect.

"If I may make a suggestion," Valjean offered, "I recommend that we all get some rest. It has been a _long_ day and it is late. Surely we can reevaluate matters in the morning, or even tomorrow afternoon when Amali's guests arrive."

Having no better idea themselves, Javert and Amali consented wearily.

"Do you want help making your bed up?" Amali asked Valjean.

"Thank you, but no, I can get it," he replied smiling.

Javert was halfway to the stairs before he processed what the girl had said. Then he paused, mid-step.

"Aren't you sleeping in your room, Valjean?" the Inspector asked.

Valjean shrugged. "Well, if you'd really rather sleep on the couch, you may, but I find that of late the mattress upstairs is too soft for my old bones."

"You mean that there are only… two rooms upstairs, yours and Cosette's?"

"Those and the powder room. Same as it's always been."

"Of… course," Javert replied.

He finished climbing the stairs contemplating this unanticipated revelation. Logically, he knew that there were three rooms on the second floor - he'd been through that hallway several times. However, he had assumed that the house on Rue Plumet had three sets of sleeping quarters upstairs. The knowledge that the "sick room", which he'd taken for a guest space, was in fact the master bedroom… Well, it was disconcerting at best. He'd been sleeping in Valjean's bed for over a week. How did one react to that?

Javert sat gingerly down on the mattress. It seemed that sleep ought to come more difficultly now but he found himself too tired to form any real sense of propriety.

Sleep fell upon him even before he had the chance to make a change of clothes; fully dressed, the musky scent of another's bed washed over him, and Inspector Javert dissolved at last into a deep and dreamless slumber.


	11. In Which the Curtain Closes on Act One

Alright, here's the next piece of work to hold the award for "Longest Chapter I've Ever Written and Then Some". On Google Documents, this thing is like 13 pages. I thought about cutting it in half, but decided that since this marks the (approximate!) half-way point in the story, it was more appropriate to just leave it long. There are a couple other alternative titles for this chapter, including "In Which Things Turn Decidedly More Slash-y" so if you're reading slash fanfiction even though you don't like it, be warned.

* * *

In Which the Curtain Closes on Act One

It was well into the morning ere any life stirred within the house on Rue Plumet. Predictably, it was Javert, the paragon of discipline, who was first to waken. He descended that first flight in all caution, careful to avoid any groan or creak of wood. Sunlight poured through the windows, filling the spartan room with richness. Valjean was as of yet stretched out on the couch, and Amali stood looking out the window, if one could be looking with one's eyes closed. Javert smirked. What was that she'd said about angels not needing sleep? Mortality was catching her up.

Keeping quiet, the Inspector knelt at the fireplace and dug through the ashes of last night's fire until he uncovered the coals, still glowing hotly. He blew gently and the heat flared, sparks shining like fallen stars. Smiling to himself, Javert pulled an iron skillet from its resting place near the fire and set it over the coals to heat. Then he stood, surveying the space for any sign of where Valjean might keep his groceries. Nothing drew his immediate attention.

At the window, Amali woke, blinking owlishly at the morning glare. She cocked her head quizzically in Javert's direction, and in response he gestured at the heating skillet.

"I thought I'd make myself useful and prepare breakfast, but..." He shrugged ruefully. "I discovered that I haven't a clue where the pantry is. Certainly not the cellar."

The girl smiled broadly. "Check the cabinet behind the table," she suggested. "If it's all the same to you, I'm going to sleep a little more. I find I quite enjoy it." So saying, she leaned with her back to the wall and moments later was asleep standing up. Javert shook his head, but he did make a point of examining the indicated cabinetry, and was pleased to discover some of yesterday's eggs and bread still waiting on consumption.

The Inspector had always lived alone, and so was used to cooking for himself. Thus, he was no stranger to cracking a handful of eggs into a pan and frying them alongside slices of toast. Indeed, for so simple a meal, it smelled excellent, and when Valjean yawned himself awake, it was with a smile that only expanded when he saw who was doing the cooking.

"You made breakfast," he observed, pulling himself upright.

"I have to do _something_ to earn my keep," the Inspector replied. "Making breakfast seemed a good place to start."

"Now, I don't know about 'earning your keep'," Valjean told him, "but I'd take breakfast any day of the week. Amali!"

The girl's head jerked upright.

"I wasn't sleeping," she said. "Just... resting. With my eyes closed."

"Come get some food," Valjean laughed.

After a moment's hesitation, Javert seated himself next to Valjean on the couch, dishing the eggs and toast onto plates that Amali grabbed from the cabinet. Taking her own dish, the girl dropped into the armchair nearest the fire.

The food was good and wholesome and the atmosphere in Number 55 was the most relaxed it had been for quite some time.

Valjean had slowly, over the course of breakfast and the ensuing conversation, inched his way across the couch such that he was seated right next to Javert. He hadn't meant to - it had just sort of happened. Animated discussion did that to a person. And if his knee occasionally brushed the Inspector's, or their hands touched briefly as Valjean gesticulated, neither Javert nor Amali commented on it, though both of them noticed, processed, and formulated their own conclusions.

Finally, the hearty laughter following one of Amali's stories (this one regarding a pint-sized Javert, thin ice, and a miraculously convenient length of rope) subsided, and Javert excused himself.

"I think I need some air," he sighed with mock lugubriousness. "If I discover that yet another of my victories was due to the helping hand of a certain angel and not my own ingenious innovation, I think I should become most upset."

"_I _just can't get over the fact that you never wondered where the rope came from," Amali laughed. "But go take your breather. We'll clean up here."

The Inspector stepped out into the garden and Amali gathered up the plates. Valjean in his turn washed up the cooking utensils in the basin. When he looked up, it was to find Amali staring at him with a knowing sort of look in her eye.

"Congratulations," she said, turning back to what she was doing.

"For what?" Valjean asked, setting the wet skillet on the table as he searched for the drying cloth.

"He likes you," she answered, a strange sort of lit to her voice. "Any fool could see that. So... congratulations."

"He likes you too," the man replied.

"But not like how he likes you."

"Oh." Valjean had only just cottoned on to her implication. "I see. But... I think you're wrong. He tolerates me, but I'm not convinced that he even trusts me, let alone _likes_ me."

Amali shrugged. "Believe what you will. But pay attention, because if I know Javert, and I reckon that I do, chances are good that he won't come to you about it. I suppose it's better that he picked you over me, though. Relationships between angels, Guardians especially, never work where mortals are involved. Well, never mind it. Forget I said anything. I don't know why I even..." She sighed. "Toss me the towel, would you?"

Valjean did, and Amali finished wiping down the plates. The older gentleman sighed as well. He suddenly felt he needed a breath of air himself, though walking out to the garden now, with Javert, seemed rather gauche. The fact of the matter was that he trusted Javert implicitly, and had done for some time. Where trust had blossomed into affection, he couldn't have said. Was it, perchance, the night of the barricades, where the rigid Inspector bent and helped him carry young Marius home? Or was it earlier yet, during some interplay of cat and mouse? Fear and passion are remarkably similar emotions. Surely it was before that dismal grey morning where the paper noted the passing of Inspector Javert, though perhaps it was in the reading that Valjean found fondness the right word to attribute to his sense of loss.

In short, Valjean loved Javert, though he never believed the Inspector might feel the same way. Now, however, Amali said he might. Valjean sighed again. Sentiment was a chain riddled with hooks and snares, and it hurt to find that he and his friend had been caught by the same person, knowing that Javert would only reciprocate the feelings of one, or neither, but never both. What had they gotten themselves into?

* * *

Javert stepped lightly around Valjean's front garden, leaves crunching like eggshells underfoot. The crisp scent of early autumn hung on the breeze, and the leaves of the apple trees trembled with anticipation. It was beautiful in an unkempt sort of way; Javert smirked ever so slightly as it occurred to him how much the garden reflected the man who tended it - it was without order, ignoring the rules gardeners so often imposed on their charges, and yet in its own disobedient fashion, it was somehow perfectly right.

The Inspector paused, frowning. Such a poetic vein of thought was foreign to him, but then, so was everything else of late. He could almost feel this new world wrapping it slender fingers around his consciousness, moulding it as it pleased, changing him in ways he'd never believed possible for a man. He shivered, and it had nothing to do with the wind. Every time Valjean had brushed against him, his skin had tingled, his face flushed. He'd had to fight the urge to scoot closer, to "accidentally" nudge his shoulder, to...

Javert resumed his pacing, his gait accelerated. He took a deep breath, filling his chest with the cold morning air. It was ridiculous, absurd, unthinkable, illogical... But clearly not impossible. Nothing here seemed to be impossible, even the things that should be. What was it he felt? Lust? Desire? Regardless, it was completely inappropriate. Inappropriate, unnatural, frowned upon...

Where had it come from? Was the unlooked-for kindness beginning to affect him? It seemed the sort of thing. He'd seen a man and a woman together once, as a boy. It didn't do to spy on people, his mother had admonished. It only led to trouble. But he hadn't listened, had he? He'd seen the man sneak into the barn, had followed him, peering through the crack in the door, saw him with the girl. The man was violent, animal, revolting, and that was before he'd caught the boy. The child knew he was in for a beating, if he were lucky, as if he didn't get enough of that at home. And then the girl had been there, talking, pleading, cajoling, and the man had let him go. But he never forgot it. People who said love was beautiful were liars.

Stopping at the stone wall, Javert turned to face the house, folding his hands loosely behind him. He never did that - it was sloppy. When had he done that before? It seemed significant somehow. The reason escaped him.

And surely, he thought, it was equally foolish to even wish Valjean felt something similar. Somehow, Javert just couldn't picture it; Valjean looking at him as an object of desire? Hardly. In a twisted way, perhaps it was natural for the cat to desire the mouse. Desire, after all, was a base instinct, taking something and making it your own. The difference between handcuffs and taking someone at one's advantage was frighteningly small. In fact, if some of his fellow officers were to be believed, handcuffs and intimacy often went hand in hand. The instinct of the mouse was to run.

Javert shook himself and sat on the bench next to the gate. Had he been aware that Cosette and Marius had first exchanged love tokens on that same bench, the irony would likely have pushed him over the edge. Just as well then that he was thusly ignorant. No, Valjean hadn't even seemed to notice the effect he'd had on the poor Inspector, which further cemented Javert's conviction that the other man hadn't the faintest non-platonic interest in him whatsoever. Either that, or he was decidedly cruel, tormenting him with what he couldn't have, with what he wanted but knew he wasn't supposed to want. Exhaling, Javert's head fell back against the cold stone.

* * *

She stared out the window blindly, absently running her fingers through her hair. She'd lost everything, then. Her life, her power, her charge, her chance at redemption - all gone. The knowledge was comforting somehow. When one was sitting on the bottom, there wasn't much further to fall short of taking out a shovel and digging. She would help Javert. Maybe then she'd be able to feel something again. Anything was better than this emptiness.

It was worse now, of course, having no means to distract herself - that was the beautiful thing about immortality: you could keep going without ever having to stop and think - but it had been omnipresent for a long time now, ever since she'd failed to stop a cold, proud river from swallowing its equivalent in flesh. It was amazing how heavy emptiness could feel.

* * *

The bell was tolling half-past-twelve when a chatter of young voices disturbed Javert from his meditations on the bench.

A voice from the other side of the wall and just to his left called out "Hello! Anyone there?".

There was the sound of someone being smacked reprovingly and an indignant "ouch!"; then a different, cooler voice said loudly "Amali, we've arrived, and we apologize for our being early. If you could just come to the gate..."

Undoubtedly it was the visitors the girl had invited. _Rather rude of them to show up an hour before they're due without even a word's notice, _Javert thought. _But then, better early than late._

He stood and walked to the gate, intending to open it for the gentlemen. He was arrested, however, by the faces that greeted him at the iron door. Three young lads, who could hardly have been past their twentieth year, were staring at him with mingled curiosity and severity. It was not their demeanor that left Javert surprised, however, but the fact that he was certain he'd seen them before somewhere.

The one standing in the center had a rather feminine quality to his features; his hair fell in golden curls down his back, and his eyes were startlingly similar to Amali's. The other two were dark haired, one quite tall and the other no more or less than average. Javert swept his memory but he just couldn't place them.

"Ah, Inspector, Amali mentioned we'd be working with you. That makes for an interesting change, doesn't it?" the blonde one said. His fellows laughed, though Javert felt he was missing something entirely.

"I beg your pardon," he said with as much civility as he could manage, "but I'm afraid I've quite forgotten your names, or how we are acquainted, though by your manner I would guess that our meeting was not under the best of circumstances.

"You can say _that_ again," the shorter dark one replied. It was he whose voice had first called over the wall.

"At least do me the courtesy of introducing yourselves before I let you in," Javert insisted. He was rapidly becoming exasperated, and he'd only just met them.

"Courfeyrac," the boy replied, giving a mock bow. "That's Combeferre -" he indicated the taller of the two "- and that's Apollo, er, Enjolras," he concluded, pointing to the blonde boy. "Now will you let us in? It's cold out here, and not all of us have greatcoats to wrap up in."

A slightly dazed Javert unlatched the gate and admitted the three students. Everything about them - their names, their dress, their faces - was bizarrely familiar. How did he know them?

Ahead of him, Courfeyrac laughed and joked, shoving Combeferre gently, though by some unspoken agreement his tomfoolery did not extend to Enjolras. Valjean was already at the door, ushering them in, as Amali had seen them coming up the path, and again Javert took pause. Something about the three of them with Valjean - why was the scene so familiar? They couldn't be relatives of his. Friends, perhaps? That didn't seem right either.

Valjean looked askance at Javert as the puzzled Inspector entered, hoping Amali knew what she was doing. The Les Amis de l'ABC could certainly be a useful group of allies, and in truth, it was only inevitable that they be involved sooner or later, but depending on their level of tact this entire meeting could rapidly degenerate into something out of a nightmare.

Amali sat everyone around the fireplace, the Les Amis on the couch and Javert in an armchair. Herself she sat on a chair dragged over from the table to leave the other wingback for Valjean. With some degree of trepidation, Valjean took the empty seat and all eyes turned to Amali.

The girl cleared her throat nervously. "As you all know, there has been a recent upswing in demonic activity. One of the consequences thereof is their over-zealous pursuit of Monsieur l'Inspector Javert. My current, ah, condition is also related indirectly to this issue. In spite of my condition, I have decided to do what I can to fulfill my duty to Monsieur l'Inspector and appreciate the cooperation of the Les Amis de l'ABC in this matter. I'm sure your insight and strategizing will prove invaluable."

Enjolras coughed gently. "If I may, Amali, I have something to say on behalf of the entire group." When the girl nodded her consent, he turned to Javert. "Inspector, I would say this and this only - we are not here for you. We are here for her, out of gratitude for a favor done one June evening several years ago. Monsieur Valjean has been kind to you, Heaven knows why, but we do not forgive quite so easily. Although to be frank, I'm not sure why Amali asked us here at all. It's not as though our 'strategizing' was especially effective. We're dead, after all."

Javert could accept open hostility from people - he was used to that. And he could understand the difficulty of forgiveness, having recently learned quite a bit about that himself, but this last statement really threw him for a loop.

"You're… all... dead?" he asked, seeking clarification. "That's a new one. You seem quite well for a trio of dead men."

Mayhap he came across as more dismissive than he'd intended, because Combeferre bristled at his words.

"Oh, very nice - certainly, Inspector Javert may laugh at our throwing our lives away, no matter the hypocrisy thereof - but at least our lives and our deaths _meant_ something. Ask yourself if you can say the same thing."

"Peace, Combeferre," Enjolras warned his companion. "We agreed to be civil. There is no need to take offense. My comrades and I," Enjolras added, addressing Javert, "were shot defending the rights of the peasantry."

"And that is... my fault?" Javert asked. He felt he ought to know the answer, a sensation that could only be described as unsettling.

Enjolras tilted his head in consideration. "Not such as it is, no. Though you did nothing to help matters."

"Could we possibly focus on the issue at hand?" Amali asked, attempting to steer the conversation out of what she deemed dangerous waters. The room's company turned their attentions back to her. "Thank you. Last night, we discovered some startling information. Apparently, one of those opposing us, the one giving Melalo his orders, has gained access to the Hall of Records through some presumably supernatural means. It was thusly that they were able to gain intelligence regarding our movements."

"Some dark creature has infiltrated the angelic stronghold? That _is_ interesting," Combeferre mused thoughtfully. "Do we know how?"

"Regrettably, I couldn't say," Amali sighed. "We about got smashed ourselves on some of the protective enchantments overlying the place."

"Why don't we just tell the Archangels about this?" Courfeyrac asked. "It seems to me that they're the best equipped to deal with the problem."

Amali's eyes narrowed slightly. "The, ahem, _Council_ is not seeing me at the moment," Amali said. "If I mention this to them, Michael will assume I'm lying in an attempt to clear my name. They might have listened before, but after my escape from their Astral prison I'm almost certainly a wanted refugee."

"I know that feeling," Valjean muttered blithely.

"But it's not as though your being here is a state secret," Enjolras argued. "That goes for all three of you. If you're that concerned about being found by either side, surely your first step ought to be to move?"

"Hardly. Number 55 Rue Plumet has the singular distinction of being the only point in the entire city to be fully corporeal. Do you have any idea how completely unpleasant it is to try and find a building that exists on a completely different plane from everything surrounding it? That's one of the rules of the game, isn't it? Otherwise you're as good as dead immediately."

"I suppose," Enjolras said doubtfully. "I never was able to follow all the rules that higher entities have to obey. All I know is that the fiacre had no difficulty finding this place, so I don't see why that shouldn't be true of anyone else."

"The other problem, of course, is that we have no idea what we're dealing with," Courfeyrac interjected. "You can't defend against or defeat a totally unknown adversary. At least against the National Guard we knew what we fighting, even if we were outmatched."

"Au contraire," Javert replied, honeyed sarcasm dripping from his voice. "We know for a fact that the entity in question is evil, incredibly powerful, and trying with a reasonable degree of effort to kill me. Also, the Archangels don't seem too keen on providing assistance, and indeed would hinder us if they could. I'm reasonably sure that at this point there is no possible means of defense or victory save that of going completely unnoticed by anyone and everyone."

"Quite the little ray of sunshine," Combeferre commented dryly. "Nevertheless, he makes a valid point. What, then, do we do about it? Break into the Hall of Records and poke around?"

"Exactly what I was thinking," Enjolras agreed.

"Absolutely not," Amali replied simultaneously.

They stared at each other over the low coffee table.

"Why not?" Enjolras asked finally.

"Why _not_?" Amali repeated incredulously. "Am I the only one here with an ounce of common sense? Does no-one else understand that we are currently discussing a death trap like it's a perfectly viable option? If we walk in there, we risk capture, torture, and death if we're caught."

"And if we don't?" Valjean had been quiet throughout the conversation, but some unknowable conviction seemed to come over him them, compelling him to speak. "What else can we do? We have no other allies, no information to go on, and in the meantime we're sitting here like the proverbial fish in the barrel - this place may be unpleasant to access, but Melalo proved that it's doable. Taking events in our own hands is the only way to stay unpredictable, and unpredictability is the only way to avoid capture. They wouldn't expect us to make a direct foray into hostile territory."

Amali stared at him in obvious dismay. "You're agreeing to this?" she asked, her voice laced with betrayal. "You're actually supporting this, this _insanity_?!"

Valjean inclined his head toward Javert, having spoken his piece. "In the end, it's really his decision that counts. We would, I think, to do well to defer to the Inspector in this matter."

Javert nodded slowly, wondering as he did so if he was making the right decision, if any decision now could be deemed right. How strange a feeling, not to have the Law supporting one's every resolution.

"I think," he said carefully, "that I would be better served listening to the counsel of the majority, and it seems that more would rather throw caution to the winds than approach this slowly. Thusly, we shall go to the Hall of Records."

"Fine." Amali stood, brushing her hands on her dress. "As you will it. But I wash my hands of this ill-starred enterprise."

"Just like you did at the barricade?" Enjolras' retort was meant to sting, and one could tell from the dull flush creeping up her neck that it did so.

"Yes," she answered icily. "And I'll repeat what I said then, shall I? 'On your own heads be it.'" She stormed to the stairs in a right state and disappeared into the basement.

For a long time after that, nobody spoke.

Javert was lost in thoughts of his own. The entire scenario had been bothering him all morning; now it seemed that pieces to a dozen puzzles were all trying to force themselves into place at once.

_The barricade... _he thought. It was definitely familiar - indeed, what Parisian hadn't heard of the bloody battles fought in the streets some decades past? And yet, he sensed that it was not this conflict to which Enjolras referred, but something more recent.

_The barricade..._ he said again to himself. This time an image rose unbidden to mind.

_Nearly two score of school boys hoisted guns over the top of a precariously constructed furniture wall. Shouting something about gunpowder, their blonde-headed leader took careful aim and fired._

The memory faded almost immediately. Where had it come from? Other images stirred, rustled like dusty ledgers from storage, worrying the Inspector's thoughts.

_"His name's Inspector Javert - he's a spy, he is," exclaimed a little child, hardly old enough to have stopped clutching at his mother's skirts. __Later, bound to a tavern post, the one accused stared idly at the ceiling, wondering what death was like._

Old and new, but somehow not new, these and more recollections swirled wildly through Javert's head. He rubbed his temples, trying to make sense of it. As though a levee had burst, there was no suppressing the deluge of memories now accosting him, each demanding attention.

_A figure towered over him, gun held loosely in hand. All he could make out were the eyes, but their tired blue-grey was well-known by association; he needn't guess at the man's identity._

_Then he was walking in silence, constantly aware of the unforgiving personage a step behind. The courtyard behind the Mussain was deserted; all were waiting for death in one manner or another. He was no different in that respect, but he was protecting Justice, while they were trying to overthrow it. Surely that was the most important distinction in the world._

Javert sat frozen as comprehension's bleak sphere dawned slowly over his mental horizon. If what he was seeing were true...

_There was a knife in the dark, but its expectant blade received not a blood sacrifice made in vengeance, but one of slit rope, the bonds falling to the cobblestones with all the finality of a funereal knell. Thus did the blue-eyed shadow vanish, and thus was Javert left alone in the dark, free from harm, caged by some insurmountable terror of his own._

_A stone structure spanned the Seine, and the water rushing under it was cold and black. Like an echo, a more recent memory superimposed itself o'er the old: Valjean's hushed voice whispered "- really jumped off a bridge?" A singular man, hands clasped behind him, strode down the road, his greatcoat streaming behind him._

Javert looked on in mounting agitation, knowing now what he was going to see, but desperate not to. He wouldn't really have - _couldn't_ have - but the evidence he provided himself was irrefutable.

_The Inspector was standing on the parapet over the center of the Seine, small before the impossible breadth of the river. He reached upwards with one gloved hand, as though looking helplessly at some salvation just out of his reach; for an instant, it might have seemed that a light broke through the clouds, begging reason, begging change, but the price the light demanded was too steep, and a moment later, Monsieur l'Inspector, his sense of purpose shattered,__ stepped forward into empty air._

"Oh my God," Javert whispered to nobody in particular. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were talking in hushed tones in the corner, while Valjean stood peering through the window. Enjolras alone remained seated on the sofa, scribbling notes into a small pocketbook; hearing Javert, he looked up in perplexity.

"I beg your pardon?" he said, laying his pen down.

"Oh my God," Javert repeated. "I'm dead, aren't I? I am... Oh my God."

Enjolras smirked slightly. "Caught on at last, have we?"

The Inspector didn't even seem to hear him, but stood, shakily, and said "Valjean."

The man turned to him, concerned. "What's wrong, Javert?"

"What's wrong?" the Inspector echoed, taking a half-dozen steps forward. "What's _wrong_? What's wrong is that I am _dead_ - committed _suicide_ - and you didn't tell me."

"Oh."

"'Oh' doesn't even begin to cover it Valjean. Neither does 'I'm sorry' or any of that other sentimental garbage you've been expounding. It doesn't mean a damn thing to you, does it?"

Javert had crossed fully the room now, was practically nose-to-nose with Valjean, had garnered an audience; the Les Amis were eavesdropping on this confrontation with mixed curiosity and awkward sympathy.

"Javert," Valjean began, "Javert, listen -"

"I've _been_ listening, and this is where it's got me. I'm sick of this nonsense." He spun angrily on his heel and strode out the rear of the house, the back door slamming shut behind him.

Valjean stood in silence for a moment, then said only "Oh dear." and headed for the door.

* * *

Javert was staring into the grey sky with new eyes. Everything made sense now, but in retrospect, the Inspector found he preferred ignorance. Monsters, angels, demons - they hardly seemed out of place if one assumed one was in the afterlife. He couldn't believe he hadn't realized it before.

The door creaked open and he sighed inwardly. The surrounding courtyard was too small for the both of them just then. Valjean seemed to recognize this and so stood behind, presumably out of sight and mind.

"Go away, Valjean," Javert said tiredly.

"You said you were tired of listening. So I thought I might give it a try instead."

For the longest time, Javert made no reply. The russet leaves of the ivy creepers twittered softly to each other, and a grey squirrel flitted skittishly across the high stone wall. A year and a day passed in that brief stillness. Finally, he trusted himself to speak.

"You could have killed me."

"You've pointed out as much before."

"But that time was different." Both knew perfectly well which instance Javert was referring to. "You practically had orders to do it."

"Bending the rules has never been a problem for me."

Javert turned to him sharply. "Are you even taking this seriously?"

"Sorry."

"So why didn't you do it?"

Valjean met his eyes then. "I think you know," he said quietly.

Javert laughed baldly. "How did Amali put it? 'Irrational compassion'? That sounds about right. A better question, then: why did _I _do it?"

The Inspector felt a hand clasp his shoulder gently; he flinched, but did not pull away.

"I think," Valjean said softly, "that sometimes we build our lives around one shining ideal, one immovable cornerstone, and then a day comes when we find that that stone isn't quite as unshakable as we thought. And then we have to decide - do we shift ourselves with it, or do we let ourselves fall?"

"And you're including yourself in that?" Insofar as Javert could tell, their life stories were near-opposites.

"Oh yes." Valjean smiled sadly, his eyes seeing not the garden but places and moments long since turned to dust. "Whether we worship authority, a laughing child, a better tomorrow - it doesn't matter. In the end, reality is never what we expect it to be. But sometimes, it can be better."

The Inspector's answering scoff was laden with its old acerbity. "Why are _you_ here?"

"All mortal creatures die, Javert. I'm as dead as you are."

Javert shook his head. It was true that until that moment he hadn't quite processed the fact that Valjean was similarly deceased, but that wasn't what he had meant. "Why are you _here_, though, and not milling about in God's green pastures or some such?"

Valjean shifted his weight, drawing his arm more closely around the Inspector's shoulders; torn between the desire to lean further into the embrace and to back away, Javert settled for standing still.

"An... _interesting_ question," Valjean replied. "What did Amali tell you about Purgatory?"

"Only that we're given some amount of time to learn our 'life lessons' properly, and that if we fail again -"

"Which you won't."

"- then we go to Hell," Javert finished doggedly.

"Mmm," Valjean murmured. "A rather bleak way of putting it, even if it's true. There are a few other allocations made to those involved, primarily that one's trial in Purgatory is postponed until such a time as all those who played a significant role in the departed's life have died themselves. You therefore settle matters with the souls who contributed to your decision to - well, you know. On the other hand, you aren't allowed to know you're dead; think about it - if you'd remembered all this the moment you woke up here, you wouldn't have given me the time of day. You have to have the opportunity to start to learn first. Otherwise you're too overburdened by dross from your previous life to make any headway."

"Previous life," Javert murmured. "You make it sound like this is just a new occupation or some such."

"Being dead is no worse than being alive," Valjean informed him. "But it's different. You could say the view is larger*"

Another fragment of conversation came to mind then. "Amali said that she wouldn't tell me why I was here; I can only assume she meant that she couldn't say I was... dead. Is there a reason that the two of you kept me in the dark on this? And I swear I will... do something unpleasant if you say anything about 'personal growth' or it being 'for my own good'."

"I think we just addressed the former," Valjean said dryly. "As for the latter... The entire purpose of the exercise is to get you into Heaven, right? Explaining all this to you prematurely negates said purpose, and, as I understand it, your existence in Purgatory collapses and you find yourself somewhere much hotter and much less comfortable. The same thing happens if you die here."

Javert glanced at him sideways. "And if _you_ die here?"

"Everyone else in this manifestation of Paris is already assigned one way or the other; if I die, I go to Heaven."

"Of course you will."

"I'm not going without you."

Javert laughed. "And what - when I fail to meet celestial standards are you going to follow me Down There in protest?"

He'd meant it in jest, albeit a morbid one, but Valjean's silence suggested that he'd hit closer to the mark than he'd intended.

"I'm not going without you," Valjean replied. "I already have your death on my conscience; I don't need to add eternal damnation as well."

There was no real way to respond to that that Javert could see, so instead he said "Let's go back inside, hmm? It's impolite to leave one's guests unattended."

The revolutionaries only looked up briefly when Javert and Valjean reentered. They had seen an untold number of arguments between friends and colleagues and knew better than to interfere when the individuals in question were sober adults. Amali had reemerged from the basement and was looking decidedly calmer herself, though the permanence of that tranquility was questionable if one judged by the expression on Javert's face when he saw her. However, after a moment, anger turned into something moderately like guilt, which itself transformed into resignation.

Amali looked him over in turn, recognizing the depth of self-awareness in his eyes with the skill of one who has seen it before, and she guessed immediately what had transpired.

"Would you care for some lunch?" she asked eventually.

Slowly, Javert nodded. "Lunch... sounds good."

* * *

The storm had passed, leaving cold clarity in its wake, the sort of cold that signals the advance of a larger storm preparing to break somewhere in the near future. For the moment, however, the sun shone on the Rue Plumet, situated as it was in the eye of the hurricane, and all hearts found new determination to face the coming trials. They would need it.

END OF ACT ONE

* * *

*Quote courtesy of Barbara Kingsolver's _The Poisonwood Bible_. It seemed to fit thematically. Guess what: I don't own that either.


	12. In Which One Should Have Read the Memo

Had a terrible bout of writer's block in the first half of this chapter, but finally the characters and I decided to be on speaking terms again last night, so here's a nice, shiny new chapter for you all.

* * *

In Which One Should Have Read the Memo

_Angels are creatures of light; they thrive off of it, emit it themselves. And thusly do they offer comfort, bearing hope into the dark places where all other light has fled._

_Demons are creatures of evil; the most powerful once were angels, but now rather than provide light, they consume it. They are the darkness that swallows the candle flame whole and leaves one, trembling, in the dark._

_He was the greatest of the Archangels, their leader and defender, and He would stroll into those haunts where even the other Archangels dared not step with slippered foot, swinging a flaming sword with all the easy causality of a child and a stick._

_Then one day, He strolled too far. In the presence of the greatest Darknesses, even the greatest Light may seem weak and insignificant, and there was a struggle beyond comparison, even to the memory of the world's most ancient creatures. Just when it seemed the Light had gained the upper hand, the malevolent Creature played a dirty, desperate trick, and He was cast down, light flickering, and was forgotten._

* * *

Two days had passed since those events last related. In that time, plans had been drawn and redrawn, favors had been called in, and a steady stream of Les Amis members flowed in and out of Number 55. At last it seemed everything was ready and all were gathered around the dining table.

Besides Jean Valjean, the Inspector, and Amali, nine of the Les Amis were to assist in the first phase of the proceedings. Enjolras was present, of course, as were Courfeyrac and Combeferre. Joly was fussing over some new spot on the back of his hand (most folks would have called it a mole), Jehan was tweaking minor details within the list of instructions, and Grantaire had succeeded in keeping himself out of a drunken stupor, even if sobriety made him more cynical than usual. Bahorel, Lesgle, and Feuilly were there as well; they had discovered a fine bottle of wine in Valjean's cabinetry and were tormenting Grantaire with the effort of not pouring himself a glass.

"Ahem," Amali cleared her throat, standing up at the head of the table. "We will prepare for departure in about five minutes. Before we go, I'd like to give a quick recap on who is doing what. If you would, Jehan?"

Prouvaire stood, list in hand. "Bahorel, Grantaire, and Lesgle will guard the house while the rest of us are away. Amali has been training them in the science of Astral protection, so they should be well-equipped should anyone attempt a break-in. The rest of us will go on to the courthouse. Feuilly and I will stake out the building's perimeter, observing the comings and goings while also staying alert so as to assist if a quick getaway is required - there has to be a better way to say that. 'A swift escape'? 'A hasty exit'?"

"Keep talking," Grantaire groaned. "We haven't time for poetic restatements of this moronic plan. Just read it as written."

Jehan looked deeply offended, but he continued. "Joly, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre will explore the outer sanctum of the courthouse, looking for... something. Am I right in saying that we don't actually know what we're searching for?"

"Outside of some form of dark magic? That's more or less correct," Javert replied. "Be on the lookout for anything even slightly suspicious."

"Okay," Jehan said, continuing. "And while those three are exploring the rest of the building, Amali, Javert, Valjean, and Enjolras will spread out through the Hall of Records."

"If I may," Javert cut in, "I still fail to see the logic in the largest group of people searching a single area. Why not send one or two of us to assist Combeferre's group?"

"The logic," Amali replied, "lies in the fact that the Hall of Records is much larger on the inside than on the outside; it literally holds the records of the lives of every mortal who ever lived on the planet earth. It is labyrinthine, enchanted, and nearly impossible to navigate for non-Archangels. I wish we could take more people with us, but given the fact that we must also avoid discovery, taking more than four is infeasible. Is that answer enough?"

"Ah. Yes. I'm practically glowing with sudden enthusiasm."

The girl strode to the center of the living room. Valjean had pushed all the furniture to the wall so that there was a large empty area in the middle. Everyone but Amali sat down, creating a twelve-pointed star missing its apex. Amali in turn took her pouch of salt from her waist and poured a wide circle around those gathered, careful to tread only on enclosed space. Then she took her place in the circle.

"Okay. Step outside of yourself just like we practiced, but don't go anywhere yet."

A few people closed their eyes. Javert didn't; it was easier for him to transition into the Astral plane if he could see what he was doing. After a long moment in which he tried to relax, the room blurred and he was looking at everything from a position slightly to the right of where he'd been a moment before.

Deliberately _not _facing his left, the Inspector watched as the Les Amis slowly shimmered into spirit forms. For a moment, they looked like phlegmatic blobs of light. Then they adjusted to their new parameters and solidified into recognizable persons. Javert felt his own essence do the same, twisting into what was more or less a double of Monsieur l'Inspector Javert. Cautiously, he peeked to his left and saw his own body sitting there, quiet as the grave. Javert's form rippled in surprise and he quickly looked away. Few sensations are more disconcerting than staring yourself in the face.

Amali had, of course, made the transition easily, and she watched in amusement as Valjean struggled to do the same.

"I _can't_," he said in exasperation. "I just can't. Every time I think I've done it, I open my eyes and I'm still sitting here."

"Of course you can do it," Javert said bracingly. "You've gone and frustrated yourself, which makes it harder. Take a breath and try it again."

Valjean gave him an appraising sort of look.

"Help me, then."

He put out his hand, and, hesitantly, Javert slipped his incorporeal fingers through Valjean's. He tried to ignore, without a great deal of success, the hot flash that swept him over as he did so. Physical sensations were not dulled in the Astral - if anything, they were intensified.

Valjean's quintessence trembled and blurred around the edges of his body, quite refusing to leave its mortal encasement. Javert tutted reprovingly.

"You still aren't relaxing."

"Inspector Javert, explaining to _me_ how to relax? What alternative universe have I stepped into?"

"The same one I've been living in for two weeks now."

Valjean took a steadying breath, and in that instant his body of light swelled past its boundaries. Javert grabbed him by his not-hand and yanked him out of his physical form. A faintly glowing Valjean fell backwards into Javert's lap.

"About time," he grumbled. "I swear, you ought to have just gone ahead. I'm perfectly capable of holding down the fort here."

Javert shifted uncomfortably.

"Er, Valjean..."

"What's wrong?" Then he seemed to realize the nature of his rather compromising position. "Oh. _Oh_." Blushing scarlet, Valjean pulled himself into a sitting position.

"Have we succeeded in collecting ourselves yet?" Amali asked dryly. "In that case, let's get on with it. First, you three - kindly step out of the circle. Remember, we're relying on our bodies being here when we get back, so do a good job guarding the place, hmm?"

Javert leaned over to Valjean.

"What if we get back and something's happened?"

"Then we're in trouble," the other man muttered. "But don't worry. They know what they're doing."

Amali broke the remaining Les Amis into their disparate groups and stood herself and Enjolras near Valjean and the Inspector.

"I'll drop everyone off at their respective outposts. In the event that anyone gets captured, you all know nothing about the rest of us, right?"

A chorus of "right"s echoed her.

Then Amali began tracing sigils in the air and the house on the Rue Plumet stretched and dissolved. The salt circle glowed with a pale blue light, those within it unmoving in the center of a riotous tornado of color and otherworldly shapes.

There was a difference between seeing the courthouse through someone else's memory and seeing it in one's own right. Memorial images summoned magically are mere shadows of the people and places they represent. Javert had only seen the court of the Sacred Citadel through Melalo's recollections and thus knew the place only in a murky grayscale. As their movement slowed, lines and hues sharpened and Javert found himself staring at a magnificent structure to which the description "courthouse" seemed a veritable insult.

The Palais de Justice should have been shamed to be compared to such a marvelous architectural wonder, though having been built by angels, perhaps there is little cause for surprise. In truth, the Parisian monument bore a few unsettling similarities to its Astral equivalent, most notably the ornate gates before the classical cour d'honneur. The intangible columns, too, vaguely Grecian in style, resembled the stonework of the Palais.

Inspector Javert was immediately overwhelmed by the sheer scope of the place - it was monstrously large - and his heart sank as he realized just how long making a proper exploration of the court would take.

Amali was speaking to Jean Prouvaire and Feuilly.

"- on the lookout constantly. No dozing, no composing poetry. One of you stay on this side, and the other head to the opposite end. Sweep your half of the building as frequently as possible."

"Understood," Feuilly replied. "You're going in?"

"Presently," the girl said, nodding the affirmative. The two boys obliged her in stepping out of the circle and the world sped past again. The gilded doors, tall and imposing, stretched impossibly high and wide as they flew through. They passed through the crowd of immortal bureaucrats slipping into spaces that Javert was sure had been occupied moments before, and then, as near as he could tell, they took two sharp lefts, first into a long hallway and then into a supply closet. It didn't look fit to hold one person, let alone seven, and yet everyone had ample standing room. The Inspector couldn't decide if that was Amali's magic at work or if the whole building was enchanted for maximum convenience.

Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Joly stepped out, looking distinctly less comfortable as they did so.

_Must be Amali, then_, Javert thought with a smirk. The boys nodded to those remaining, and the circle sped away for the final time. They zipped down such a dizzying maze of halls and passages that even Amali lost her sense of orientation - the circle had to do the driving for her.

At last, they came to a stop, not in a closet this time, but a little-used corridor just west of the Hall of Records. The circle dispersed around them, leaving a bedraggled ring of salt on the floor. The girl kicked it halfheartedly, scattering the grains into a less recognizable pattern.

"Which way?" Enjolras asked quietly. "We need to get out of sight."

"Agreed. There is a side entrance into the Hall. It was added as an entire wing for Black Plague victims' records. People were interested in the crisis at the time, but now it's the least-used area. Through here."

She gestured to a small mahogany door built in to the papered wall. Valjean pushed it open and held it for the other three. That entrance took them into a small foyer, barely six feet square. It was dark and largely abandoned if the dust was anything to judge by.

There was another door on the opposite wall which Valjean crossed to as soon as everyone was inside. This portal he opened slowly, peering through the widening gap into the next room, on guard for any other presence. There was none. With the door open, they crossed the threshold into the Hall of Records.

* * *

As it approached midday, Jehan leaned his back against a cool stone pillar and sighed softly. The hustle and bustle of the court filled the cour de'honneur with a low hum, and several times he had been forced to duck into a nearby rhododendron bush to avoid notice by some clerk or visitor.

Feuilly was nowhere in sight, doubtless on the other side of the complex by now. So far, Jehan had seen nothing of note save a pair of angelic lovers doing something most unangelic behind the rhododendron. No suspicious figures or transactions, no sudden disappearances. Even the snatches of gossip he'd overheard were boring.

A woman clipped by, her robe swishing over her heels and a young page trotting in her wake.

"The Archangels are convened this evening - _this_ evening, boy - so we must..."

She faded out of earshot as she strode down the veranda.

Interested, Jehan crept after her, sticking to the shadows between columns. It turned out to be nothing more than an issue of dinner catering - Archangels, Jehan learned, had very specific tastes. Somewhat disappointed, he sat down on a step and fiddled with the pad of paper that never left his side.

Across the courtyard, a sandy-haired child drew breath sharply and shimmied the length of the walk while Jehan was thusly distracted. He'd been beginning to think that Prouvaire would _never_ drop his guard. The boy ducked under a cart, slipped between two shades who were there for an audit, and squeezed through the great front doors as they swung shut after some diplomats.

He'd made it inside.

* * *

"I tell you, the dust in here is going to give me an asthma attack," Joly whispered hoarsely to Courfeyrac.

The other Les Amis rolled his eyes in exasperation. As if crouching in a musty closet for an extended period wasn't already uncomfortable enough, Joly wouldn't stop talking about all the diseases he was sure to get from mold and dust and cleaning supplies. As much as Courfeyrac loved his comrade, Joly's malade imaginaire tendencies were sometimes nothing short of frustrating.

"Breathe through your shirt, then," Courfeyrac said irritably. "I hope Combeferre gets back soon."

"Why did he get to go scout around on his own?" the young medical student asked. "We're here to help, after all."

"He thinks I can't take anything seriously and doesn't want you checking your pulse at the wrong moment," Courfeyrac replied, a sort of bitterness creeping into his voice. Sure, he liked to play around, but he also knew when to be serious. That's why he was here, wasn't it, instead of reclining on a chaise in Paris, alive and well? He resented that the older student didn't see that.

No sooner had he thought this then there came a quiet, intricate tapping at the door. Recognizing their signal, Courfeyrac took the makeshift bolt (actually a broom handle) from the knob and Combeferre stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. The closet was uncomfortable with two people; with three, it was downright unpleasant.

"There's a lot of traffic up and down this hall," Combeferre informed them. "It's some kind of main thoroughfare. We're in luck, though, because most of the passages branching off lead to offices so they aren't nearly as busy."

"Offices?" Courfeyrac asked thoughtfully. "That sounds like as good a place to start as any. Perhaps we can find a paper trail to follow."

"Just as long as we can get out of this blasted closet." Joly's voice was muffled by his shirt - apparently, he'd taken Courfeyrac's advice and was breathing through it.

"To the left, then, and then across the hall." Combeferre ushered first Courfeyrac and then Joly into the sunny passage. Wide windows cast a warm glow on the oriental carpeting which would have been quite pleasant had not the three been trying to stay out of sight. They ducked hurriedly to the left and ran to a place where a long corridor lined with doors split from the wider hall.

No sooner had they pressed themselves to the first of the office doors then a group of commingled shades and angels sauntered past, headed down the main ingress. The revolutionaries recognized it as an aggregation of newly dead being shown the ropes. They'd been offered the tour themselves shortly after getting shot but had declined; a brief meeting with their pauchy, exasperated Guardian angels had been more than enough for the lads.

"How many of them are we going to have to avoid?" Joly whispered.

"A lot," Combeferre replied. "People die all the time. I can't imagine how this place

avoids getting backlogged with fresh souls."

"Well, they give me the creeps," the younger student informed them. "I can practically forget I'm dead most of the time, but seeing all this again... It sort of brings it back, you know?"

Courfeyrac and Combeferre didn't answer. Joly's statement was an uncanny mirror of what they'd just been thinking themselves.

Instead, Courfeyrac turned to examine the door they stood in front of.

"We may as well try here first. Better to be systematic about this, after all."

He peered through the keyhole, and, seeing nothing outside of a wide, messy desk, he slowly turned and pushed the knob. The first cubicle, in which the wide, messy desk resided, was otherwise devoid of life. That was the good part. The bad part was that seemingly every other cubicle in the room was occupied. That, and all the desks were wide and messy.

"This is going to take a long time," Courfeyrac muttered.

"You think?" Combeferre said grumpily.

"Come on." Courfeyrac crawled across the floor and hid behind the desk for cover. He leaned out around the corner and motioned the other boys over, grinning cheekily.

"And now, we go through people's private affairs," he whispered, his manner all one of the stage magician. "Observe. The... _department memo_."

He waved a sheet of lilac paper in Joly's face.

"This is beyond pointless," Joly groaned quietly, taking the memo from Courfeyrac. "We can't possibly go through all this garbage. Besides, how many doors did we see out there? A dozen? Two? There's ten cubicles in here, and this is only the first room. Besides, sneaking around all of them -" he gestured vaguely towards a flimsy gray panel, from beyond which came the sound of a loud debate over the benefits of a pixie-free workplace, "is going to be a nightmare. I mean, what _is_ this, even? It's a bloody letter about a _banquet_ tonight. Why in God's name -"

Joly stopped. His eyes grew wider as he stared in mounting dismay at the memo.

"What is it?" Combeferre mouthed, wrenching the paper from Joly's hands. He read the sheet over once, twice, and then his eyes too grew large. Courfeyrac skimmed over the paper he had so desultorily brandished. It read thusly:

_A Note to All Department Managers_

_Be it known that on this night, the 24th of June, 1832, a banquet of the highest order is to be brought forth to the Hall of Records in honor of his Grace the Archangel Michael..._

The memo proceeded to summarize all the significant achievements of His Grace for the past year, listed attendees as "by invite only", and closed with a reminder that the dinner started at 6:00; all faculty and visitors were to be out of the area no later than 5:00, and any unwelcome guests would be punished "according to the severity of their breach of conduct".

"What do you suppose the penalty is for a disempowered Guardian angel to be caught snooping in the Hall of Records during an Archangel's dinner party?" Joly asked, something resembling awe present in his hushed tones.

"Not good," Combeferre answered glumly. "Not to mention what would happen to Valjean and Enjolras, or the Inspector. I don't like him, but there are some things you just wouldn't wish on anyone."

"We needn't take this as all bad," Courfeyrac said, trying to lighten the suddenly dismal atmosphere. "After all, there's bound to be less people in the Hall if they all know about the banquet, right? So they already have a significantly lessened chance of discovery. Maybe Amali even knew the thing was tonight; maybe she's hoping that the guy eavesdropping on the Archangels will come back for the party. What time is it now?"

Three pairs of eyes turned to an ornate desk clock ticking away the seconds. It read 2:30.

"How has it already been over two hours?" Combeferre exclaimed, barely remembering to keep his voice down.

"Time is funny here," Courfeyrac replied. "Remember? They explained that when we first, ah, showed up. This place is fully Astral - it has no physical counterpart - so there's nothing to preserve the usual time flow. Some moments seem to last forever, while others slip away almost immediately. Eternal salvation and damnation are built on the same principle. Now come on, let's get out of here."

Joly carefully replaced the memo on the desk and the three slipped out the door as unnoticed as they'd entered.

* * *

As it so happened, Amali had quite forgotten about the banquet. It was something rather akin to a large stain in the carpet - if one lives with it long enough, one forgets it's there, while visitors notice it immediately. It should be noted that Amali looked forward to the annual dinner with an attitude akin to what one might feel in regarding a carpet stain.

Traditionally, the four Archangels with permanent Council seats would host a banquet in commemoration of their accomplishments during the approximate middle of their designated quarter. The festivities were supposed to be all-inclusive with the intent of giving back to friends and supporters, but the occasion had, over time, morphed into a by-invitation affair that took on overtones of self-aggrandization; in short, it was everything Archangels were supposed to stand against. For that reason, Raphael, Uriel, and Gabriel had more or less given the thing up. Michael, however, insisted that it was important to meet and discuss, and so he continued the yearly event, much to everyone else's chagrin. Invitations were therefore sent out to the other six Council members and a select mix of other Archangels, Cherubim, and Seraphim. Guardians were, as a rule, not invited.

Thus it was that Amali blatantly ignored the innumerable reminders, sometimes setting the hapless memos on fire when matters were slow around the office. At this moment, the ex-angel was not concerned about her lack-luster social circle. She was instead worried about Valjean, who couldn't seem to keep his focus.

"I'm only looking at the boxes," Valjean grumbled. "They're interesting."

"They're also not your memories," Amali argued. "Just leave it!"

Valjean sighed and replaced a minute black box on it's appropriate shelf.

The Hall of Records was virtually nothing _but_ shelves. They towered some three stories high, stretching toward the domed ceiling. Each shelf was labeled with name-bearing plaques, and above each plaque sat the irresistible black boxes that contained quite literally the records of people's entire existences. Signs projected from the midsection of the cases, informing the casual browser what era and what region was represented on that particular display.

"Open the lid and watch a play-by-play of someone's life," she had said when first they entered. "Shades used to get addicted to the sensation. They would spend every moment they could here, living other people's lives. As a result, the place is now off-limits to non-angels."

The temptation to peek only grew stronger the longer one stayed, and curiosity unchecked could prove treacherous.

"How big is this place?" Javert asked.

Amali frowned. "At least a mile square, I think. Maybe larger. Why?"

"The plan was to split up, wasn't it? Let's do so, and get a move on."

"I agree," Enjolras chimed in, stepping forward. "If each of us takes a corner, we can search the place in a quarter of the time."

"I suppose..." the girl acquiesced, biting her lower lip. "But do not - _do not_ - muck with the boxes. I'm telling you, this is quite possibly one of the worst places to get caught in someone else's head."

The three men nodded to each other and chose their designated fourth of the Hall. Enjolras took the first right at the shelf's end, while Valjean and Javert headed further eastward toward the other two corners of the room. Amali watched them disappear slowly, wondering at her misgivings. Surely they were mature enough to not interfere.

There was searching to be done. Amali took a left and started seeking possible hiding spots for dark creatures. In retrospect, it all felt like a rather futile task.

* * *

Valjean and the Inspector had been walking side by side for some time. There was no sense, they had decided, in splitting off from one another while they were still on this half of the room. There was safety in numbers, after all. They did not speak, but each took comfort in the other's presence.

Everything looked the same. Only the labels changed to indicate that they weren't walking in place. Valjean looked around in wonder. So many people from places he'd never seen - how could Amali blame him for being curious? What was freedom if not the chance to travel anywhere one liked?

Javert was largely uninterested in the shelves' contents. He _was_ becoming more apprehensive, however, wondering again why he'd agreed to this idea and what they were actually supposed to do if they found something immortal and malignant.

They had passed much of Asia through the centuries before they found the center of the room. There was, under the penultimate point of the dome, a wide circular space set half with lounge chairs. The other half was occupied by a flurry of nymph lackies assembling long ebony tables.

"Where's the crowbar?" A short blue-blonde one shouted. "These panels are stuck again!"

A tall red-headed nymph with a clipboard sighed audibly. "Again? That's the third time in as many minutes!"

"I'm sorry, my Lady!" the smaller one squeaked. "It needs more oil yet around the hinges, I think."

The men stood behind a shelf watching things quite literally unfold as the team worked the stretch the enormous table to its full length.

"I suggest we go around," Javert murmured at last. "I think they are well-occupied."

"Indeed," Valjean said faintly. "What do you suppose they're doing?"

"I don't know, but try to commit the location to memory. It could be important."

Nymphs avoided, they wandered deeper into the maze-like Hall. By sheer force of luck, they had avoided thus far the dangers the room presented; however, a first stumbling block would prove not long in presenting itself. Javert and Valjean looked up to find themselves in a wing rather closer to home: signs put the contents of the shelves as belonging to folks from England, from Germany, and indeed from France. As they meandered, it seemed that some force drew them closer and closer to their own day and age until -

"Valjean." Javert's voice was soft, but after so much time spent in silence it seemed too loud.

"Mmm?" Valjean asked absently. He'd kept walking, but the Inspector had stopped and was staring rigidly at something.

"Come here a second." There was something oddly affected about the way that he said it. When indeed Valjean went and stood by, it took him a moment to grasp the importance of what he was looking at.

Then he said, in that way he sometimes did, "Oh".

There was a row of boxes. They were small and black and identical to every other such box in the complex. The plaques were labeled with French names: Alaine Vidocq, Jondrette Valentine, and the like. And then there was one, utterly similar, except for the fact that the brass plaque read "Jean Valjean".

"Are you going to look at it?" Javert asked, something still unusually husky about his voice.

"No, I'm not," Valjean replied, looking at the Inspector sidelong. "I'm intimately familiar with the events of my life, thank you. Why? Did you...?"

"No, no," Javert cut him off hastily. "I just thought, since we were here, that I ought to point it out..."

"Of course," Valjean said uncertainly. "Shall we keep going, then?"

They had passed several other shelves of French memory-boxes before they reached any beginning with "J" that likewise belonged to their contemporary era. Surely enough, a rather abashed Valjean felt obligated to look for, and find, a record labeled simply as "Javert". He pointed this out to his companion and was on the verge of asking why no first name was given when he thought better of it. They laughed awkwardly about coming across the accounts of their respective lives, neither of them mentioning that thing which weighed heavily on both of their consciences.

Each unbeknownst to the other, both men were burdened by the weight of small black boxes concealed in a coat sleeve or a pocket, and two shelves found themselves in the rather distressing position of having a box matched to the wrong name, as if two someones had desperately wanted to conceal the fact that something of great importance had been taken.

What was the price, they wondered, of looking uninvited into someone else's story? One's integrity? Friendship? Sanity? And if the steepness of said price was nearly unspeakable, then why were they so eager, upon abruptly agreeing to go in differing directions, to hide behind a shelf and peek, just for a moment, into the life of their equal and opposite?


End file.
